Illuminate
by Aspenvanilla
Summary: Frodo is only about a year away from his coming-of-age party, but does he truely know everything about himself? Prequest. F/S slash.
1. Prologue: Sam Runs into Frodo

_I __do not__ own lotr or any of the characters that I am portraying poorly. The content of this fanfiction is questionable and should not be viewed by minors. . .or anybody for that matter._

_Enjoy._

**Chapter One: Sam Runs into Frodo**

Sam came huffing and puffing up the hill, but no matter how quickly he moved his short legs he couldn't keep up with his brothers. He couldn't match their long, grown-up strides.

"Hamson! Wait for me!" he squeaked out. "Halfred!"

They threw their heads over their shoulders even as they ran and Sam saw, on the corners of their faces, smug, little grins.

"What'er ye doing back there, Sam?" Hamson bellowed, much to Halfred's grinning amusement. "Picking daisies?"

"No," Sam answered indignantly. "Ye know very well I'm not picking daisies. Yer both just trying to get rid of me!" he paused for a puff of breath. "Ye promised! Ye said if I took the fall for ye, ye would let me come with ye to see the lasses!"

"Sam, Sam, Sam," chided Hamson, placing his hands on his hips in the fashion of a mother scolding her child for running with the butter knife, doing this even as he ran, gaining more and more distance from Sam by the second. "Bringing our _nine _year old brother to see lasses? That simply would _not_ be very responsible of us, now would it?"

"But ye promised!" Sam squeaked again. Hamson and Halfred were coming now to the edge of the field and only a couple more of their grown-up strides would be needed to reach the thicket, which led into a little wood that Sam was not allowed to venture into alone. "Wait!" he shouted one last time, but-

"Sorry, Sam! Maybe when yer older!" And then they were gone. Sam skidded to a halt. He could hear the rustling they made, their snickering laughs as they dashed away, running as if they thought Sam still might chase them and make the whole situation all the more laughable. In Sam's head the image of him tangled in a snag-bush came to mind; flapping and flailing, his hands beating at the branches no better than baby fists.

"They may go a-breakin' their promises," he said to himself. "but I wouldn't give them _that_ to remember, no sir! Never'd I live it down!"

Sam turned around to head back home, feeling momentarily proud of himself for not following them in. "The Gaffer may think me a Ninnyhammer, but I'm smarter than those two. What if _they_ got caught in a snag-bush. Funniest thing in the world that would be and no mistake! Then _I_ could call _them_ Ninnyhammers and they would have to take me with them to see the girls next time, because The Gaffer would think me older, in mind that is, than them. And they would have to follow _me_ around, because The Gaffer would say so."

Sam reached the end of the field as he entertained himself with these thoughts and came into sight of his home, a low Smial, small and quaint, but the homiest home he ever did live in (the only one too). And it looked even smaller and even quainter compared to Bag End, which sat high and. . .Sam searched for a description.

"Scholar-like," he finally said, nodding to himself. "Jus' like old Bilbo inside."

And it was a good description. There was something in the way the hill flowed around it. It wasn't stout and imposing like so many of the gentry's homes, but more graceful and more practically built, with that cheery, green door-taller than The Gaffer!- and round, that seemed to say 'good times are just inside'.

Not that Bag End was a place for Sam's enjoyment. No, he knew very well that it was a place to work at and he also knew that in due time, when he was as big as his ninnyhammer brothers, he would go to work there too, just like The Gaffer. And even though he was reminded time and time again that it wasn't a place for him to go playing around in, he couldn't help but enjoy it there. Didn't matter if The Gaffer was showing him the ropes in the garden or if Bilbo had invited them inside for a quick cup of tea. It felt like a second home.

He reached the dirt road by his own home and bent over, hands on his knees, to catch his breath. He eyed the round door (crude, it was, and humble; especially compared to Bag End).

"No way I'm going in there right now," he sighed to himself, remembering how his brothers had broken The Gaffer's favorite shovel and told Marigold that Sam had done it. He regretted not setting her straight on that, but his brothers had promised that if he accepted the blame they would take him to visit the lasses. They were always sneaking out to see them right under The Gaffer's nose! Well, Sam's curiosity had betrayed him and he took the fall. And what did he get in return? More of his brother's tricks, that is what!

Sam stood there trying to decide what to do next, but ran out of time all too quickly. He didn't notice the sun rolling low in the rosy sky and the hum of night-crickets, calling the nightly orchestra together. It was early evening, but the time didn't even cross his mind until he heard his Gaffer's whistling, approaching from Bag End.

Sam jumped at the sound and went to hide behind the smial, where he crouched, heart pounding, in a little, prickly bush and listened. He heard his Gaffer open the squeaking door and enter, feet clomping over the threshold. Sam waited in dread for a minute before the door opened again.

"Sam! Ye get yerself in here right now, wherever ye are!" Came his voice, hot with anger.

'Oh, this is defiantly not worth it! Oh no, no, no!' he thought frantically to himself. 'Hadn't even thought about the Gaffer coming home first! Marigold would believe me, but the Gaffer would jus' say I was a fibber! He'll box my ears for sure!'

Sam heard him shutting the door behind him, followed by a pair of quieter footsteps behind his own heavy ones (Marigold, could it be?).

"Ye think he ran?" She asked, confirming Sam's suspicion.

"No," The Gaffer answered as he rounded the corner and came into sight. "Samwise isn't much the running type. He'll be _hiding_ 'round here somewhere, I warrant."

Sam froze. He could see The Gaffer and Marigold through the bush's branches, but they didn't seem to see him. They didn't seem to be able to see much at all, the back of the Smial being set in the darkening shadow of the larger Bag End hill. If Sam could just sneak back a ways without making noise…

He untangled himself from the bush's hooks and to his relief the leaves didn't crackle or rake loudly against his crude-knit clothes. He eased himself out silently, away from The Gaffer and Marigold, backwards without a sound. Then he was free, spun around and ran as quickly and as quietly as he ever had, dashed headlong up the hill, up all the way to the back of Bag End and dove head first into the hedge (a wall of green that enclosed the bright, summery gardens).

He turned back and peeped his face (smeared now with dirt) through the hedge. Marigold was heading back inside now, hands on her hips. The Gaffer was still rooted in the same spot, though, craning his neck around and shaking his head.

Sam had to bite his tiny fist to keep himself from shrieking with mirth. But for all his efforts he couldn't help giggling a bit.

"Alright now. I'll just cut through the garden real quick before I get caught and…and…oh dear. What now?"

"Samwise Gamgee!" came The Gaffer's voice, suddenly closer. "I saw ye run up this way! Ye better not be in the Baggin's Gardens!"

"Oh dear!" Sam tumbled back, crushing a couple of delicate lilies. He sprang to his feet and shot through the garden as fast as his little legs could carry him. But he didn't look where he was going.

A great tree root seemed to materialize out of nowhere. He tripped, was airborne for a split second, and then with an "_oof!_" he flopped across someone's lap.

"Oh!" cried a voice.

And this is how Sam found himself with his belly pressed against the pages of a flattened book. He looked up and was struck dumb by the face staring back down at him.

"Yer an Elf!" he blurted. The elf jumped. He looked to be a little younger than Halfred, but 'then again,' Sam reasoned with himself. 'Elves can get older even than The Gaffer and still look young!' His face was the color of the cat's favorite cream, with rosy cheeks, that glowed even rosier in the evening light. His curls were dark, nearly raven-black, and had a reddish glow. But all of those things weren't nearly as strange as his eyes. They were wide like a child's and bluer than the bluest blue.

The elf seemed just as shocked as Sam felt. "No," he finally answered. "What are you doing?"

Sam lifted himself and crouched at the elf's side with a set look upon his face. He crossed his arms and ignored the question. "What do ye think _yer_ doing, Mr. Elf, sneaking in Mr. Bilbo's garden? I don't think he would rightly appreciate it."

To his surprise, the elf burst out laughing. Sam shrunk back a bit, his face going hot. "Now I'm being serious," he muttered through his own embarrassment. "My Gaffer says folk will come and try to find Mr. Bilbo's treasure to take for their own. I say, yer not allowed to go taking from Mr. Bilbo, if that is what ye were going about."

This just made him laugh all the harder, but he finally did calm down, wiped loose tears from his eyes.

"It's good to know that my uncle's guards are so dedicated," he said and then added, "My name is Frodo Baggins. I'm going to be living here for a while."

"Oh," said Sam shyly, his face burning even hotter. "_Baggins_. I r-reckon yer a hobbit then."

"I wish I were an elf," he offered.

"My name is Samwise Gamgee, but ye should jus' call me a ninnyhammer. S'what my Gaffer says and it seems he's right. Beggin' yer pardon, but please don't go thinkin' that all Gamgees are ninnyhammers jus' 'cause you met the ninnyhammerest of them all."

"I don't think you're a ninnyhammer, Samwise. I think you're funny."

"Ye think I'm funny?"

Frodo nodded with a grin and Sam put his hands to his face, bashfully hiding behind his fingers. "Ye-ye can call me 'Sam' if you want to. The Gaffer only calls me 'Samwise' if I'm in trouble."

"Alright, Sam."

Sam beamed, then hesitantly removed his hands and dropping them at his sides. "So, if'n ye don't mind me askin', why did you come to live here, then?"

"Oh," said Frodo softly. There was a sudden sadness in his eyes and for a moment, to Sam's shock, he looked like he was about to cry, but the moment passed and he finally answered. "I just missed Bilbo terribly and wanted to stay with him for a while."

"Yer Mum and da' were okay with letting you come?" Sam gasped out, clearly impressed. "Mine would never let me leave. The Gaffer would say I was lazy and wanting to get out of garden work, but that's not true, because I _like_ garden work."

There was that look again in Frodo's eyes, but again it passed. "You're _Gaffer_? Would that be Hamfast?"

"Yes sir! He's yer gardener and I'll be next after him! He's a-trainin' me!"

"Goodness. And you're so little."

"No," said Sam, shaking his head. "I'm _nine_!"

"You're _nine_!"

Sam nodded proudly.

"My, you're not little at all, are you?"

"Nuh-uh."

"would you like to guess how old I am?" Frodo asked, his eyes twinkling.

"Old as Halfred, I reckon."

"I'm twenty-one, which makes me a _tween_ now."

"Oh," squeaked Sam in appreciation. "Beggin' yer pardon, but yer kind of _old_." And then he drew a bit closer and went on in a low whisper. "Old enough to kiss lasses even. That's what my brothers say."

Frodo laughed at that. "Would you be impressed if I told you that I have actually kissed a lass before?"

Sam's eyes went round. "_Really?_ No joke?"

"No joke," Frodo pronounced proudly.

"What was it like?"

"Like nothing else." Then he gave another little laugh. "Now if you don't mind _me_ asking, what were you doing running through the garden?"

"No, _sir_, I don't mind at all. I was running from me Gaffer, because he thought-,"

"Frodo!" Came Bilbo's voice. "Frodo, where are you?"

Frodo jumped up and peered over a lilac bush. "I'm here, uncle!"

"Hamfast is here! He is wondering if you have seen his son, Samwise, around!"

Sam sucked in breath. He crawled forward and tugged on Frodo's pant leg. "Please!" he hissed lowly. "He can't find me now. He thinks I've been naughty when I haven't and he'll box my ears for sure."

Frodo froze and there was a long pause, in which the only sound that Sam could hear was his own pulse. Then finally he spoke. "Sorry, Uncle! I haven't seen anyone back here!"

An awed smile broke upon Sam's face as he looked up at Frodo.

"Alright!" Bilbo called back. "Come in soon! It's getting late!" Then in a quieter voice, "I'm sorry, Hamfast. Frodo hasn't-," and then the door shut, cutting off the rest.

Frodo sat down again and eyed Sam. "So you were running from your father then?"

Sam nodded. "But it wasn't my fault. Hamfast and Halfred were playin' around with The Gaffer's favorite shovel and broke it! Then they went and blamed it on me and then ran away to see the lasses."

"What?"

Sam elaborated, telling the whole story in full detail. Frodo was a patient listener and he didn't interrupt, but there were flickers of amusement in his eyes now and again. When Sam finished he leaned back against the tree and sighed.

"Well, Sam. What now?"

"Oh, I can't never go back," Sam wailed. "No, never! He'll box my ears for sure and no mistake!"

"You're going to run away, then?"

"Well," Sam pondered. "I _have_ run away."

"So you're going to stay here then?" Frodo asked, tipping his head up to look Sam right in the eye. "You're going to live…in this tree, right here?"

"Well, that _is_ an interesting idea, but you would have to set out my meals."

Frodo laughed out loud, but Sam was quite serious. "Sam, Sam. I was only making a point."

"A_ point_, sir?"

"The _point_ is, you can't live in a tree, Sam. You need to run around in the grass like other hobbit children and eat your meals at a table indoors. The _point_ is, you need to go home tonight and face your Gaffer. We all have our _own_ 'Gaffers' we need to face."

"I reckon yer right," Sam sighed. "But I don't _feel_ ready to face my Gaffer at all." He sniffled his nose and wiped his arm across his eyes where tears had started to well up.

Frodo looked on with pity, but was unsure of what to do. Finally, he spoke up. "Would you like me to read to you? Just for a bit?"

Sam nodded glumly. Frodo motioned for him to sit next to him against the tree and Sam complied. He picked up the book he had been reading and flipped back to the first page.

"This story is my favorite," he said. "It's called _Amarth and Dinelloth_. It's about two elvish princes."

That perked Sam right up. "E-elves?" he quested. "Is it an adventure sort of story then?"

Frodo grinned. "Well, you will just have to find out, won't you?" And then he began.

Sam leaned back and rested against Frodo's shoulder so that he could get a better look at the book. There were no pictures; it was all words, but from the first page on, Sam was completely immersed in the story and listened with unwavering ears.

It was indeed an adventure story, and an exciting one at that. It started with two elvish princes who were close friends, Amarth and Dinelloth. They lived normal lives (Well, normal for elves anyways) until one day when they went off exploring and found an old cave. They were young, as elves go, and rather foolish. They felt that that cave was not quite right, yet they went in anyways and awakened an ancient monster, a giant snake by the name of Loki, that escaped and wreaked havoc on their woodland home. When the king found out what they had done, the two were banished from the forest, never to return.

When Frodo finished reading that part he closed the book.

"It can't be over," said Sam sleepily, yet there was still a note of distress in his voice.

"That was only the _first_ book," Frodo answered. "But it's getting too dark now. I could barely finish in this light. The sun has been down for quite a while now and it's getting colder." He sighed softly and then added. "You know what that means, Sam. Time to go back home-face the music, you know. You must be tired by now. Sam?" Frodo glanced down and, sure enough, Sam was out already, sleeping his little worries away upon Frodo's shoulder.

He chuckled to himself and shook him gently. "Sam. Sam, it's time to go home now."

"Alright," Sam mumbled, half asleep.

Frodo helped Sam stand, but on his own feet Sam stumbled and swerved like a drunk, so Frodo ended up carrying him on his hip. It was nearly dark as Frodo reached Sam's smial and knocked on the brown door.

A girl, just about Frodo's age, answered. Her eyes went wide when she saw him.

"Oh, Hello Mr. Baggins," she blurted out, curtsying clumsily. "Sam?"

"Hello," he answered politely. "It seems Samwise here wandered into the garden and fell asleep. I found him in the daisies."

"Oh me! We was lookin' for him! I'm so sorry, sir. It won't happen again."

"It's quite alright," he said, unsure of how else to respond. "We had a nice little chat, didn't we Sam?"

"Yes sir," Sam mumbled, his head nodding about. Frodo handed him off to his sister.

"Thank you, sir."

Frodo nodded. "Good night."

"Good night."

And then he stepped back and she shut the door quietly.

-0-

Frodo began whistling as he walked home, but stopped suddenly, surprised at himself. He could believe that he had actually just whistled. And then another shock.

"I just spent two hours…talking," he muttered to himself in amazement.

Ever since that _day_, that horrible, horrible day when he found out that his parents had drowned, he found it difficult to be around…anyone. He had lived at Brandy Hall with his cousins for a short time, but everyone, whether they said it or not, seemed to notice a change in him. He wouldn't eat as much as his cousins, he couldn't sleep the whole night through, and most of all, he found it difficult to be around the folks that he had once been so close with. Secretly, he had always suspected that there was something in him that had died with his parents, though he never spoke of it to anyone (It would only cause worry.) His ability to connect had been lost, or so it seemed.

Maybe it was because Sam was so young, that no matter how sad Frodo felt inside, he looked up at him like he was glowing like the sun. Maybe it was because Sam was too immature to tell that something wasn't right. He didn't try to pat Frodo on the back or try to understand when it was a thing beyond his understanding. Maybe it was simply because Sam _was_ so young, that it made Frodo feel like he was young too, like he had been given a small fragment of his childhood back; a childhood that had ended all too abruptly.

Sam was a good lad.

Frodo slipped in the great, green door and hauled himself off to bed. In the dark, he cried just a little for memory of his parents. His wounds were still fresh. But that night he slept sounder than he had in weeks.

-0-

Sam woke the next morning to find himself in his own bed. He padded out to the kitchen on soft feet, rubbing his eyes, to find The Gaffer taking a quick smoke on his pipe before going off to Bag End.

"Da'?"

The Gaffer turned. "Samwise, yer up early. Sit down so we can talk." His voice was stern.

The Gaffer scolded Sam, telling him he had been a ninnyhammer for breaking the shovel, and especially for trespassing in Mr. Bilbo's garden. Sam listened with a bowed head to keep his watery eyes hidden. Shame flooded him and he wanted very, very badly to tell the Gaffer outright that it was Hamson and Halfred who had broken the shovel, but he kept his mouth shut.

What had Frodo said last night? "We all have our _own_ 'Gaffers' to face." It still rung clear in Sam's head.

'Yes,' Sam thought to himself even as The Gaffer railed over his head. 'I suppose I needed to face him, but, _Lady_, my Gaffer is the Gafferest of all the 'Gaffers'. And if I make it out without getting my ears boxed, why, I'll eat my hat!'

Then, The Gaffer seemed to finish and leaned back in his chair. Sam risked a glance up to find that he had taken up his pipe and poked it through his lips. His expression: Benevolent.

"I'll be taking ye to Bag End with me today. Reckon it'll keep ye out of trouble."

Sam nodded frantically, a grin of relief breaking upon his round face.

"But I don't want ye pestering the Master Frodo. Have I made meself clear? I heard from May that he had to carry ye home last night. Now I'm sure he's a pleasant lad, but it's not his job to put up with ye if he doesn't want to? Alright Sam? Just ye remember yer place."

"Yes sir," said Sam. He tried not to show it, but he was a bit abashed. Had he been _pestering_ Mr. Frodo?

A few minutes later, as they left the smial, a funny thought occurred to Sam. 'The Gaffer didn't box my ears! Not even a bit!' Sam fumbled with the hat on his head, feeling the coarse cloth, thinking how difficult it would be to swallow. He shook his head. 'Silly. It's jus' an expression.'

-0-

Sam tried to keep his head down and focus on what his Gaffer was doing, but he couldn't help wondering if Mr. Frodo had been annoyed with him. He didn't have to wonder long, though. Halfway through the morning, Frodo came around a wall of Ivy with a book under his arm.

"Hullo Hamfast," He greeted.

"Hullo, Master Frodo." The Gaffer nodded.

"Hullo Sam," Frodo said on the same breath. "You look well rested."

"Yes sir," answered Sam, thrilled to say the least. Frodo didn't seem annoyed at all. On the contrary. He looked as cheery as the gardens he was walking in. "I sleep real well if I'm read a story."

"You liked that story then?"

"Oh yes! I think it's the excitingest story I ever heard, but," Sam muttered shyly, his eyes on the ground. "I wish I knew how the story ended."

"Samwise," warned the Gaffer under his breath so that Frodo couldn't hear.

Sam cringed at his Gaffer's reprimand, suddenly regretting the request, but Frodo didn't bat an eye at it. "There are three more books that complete the story, but I have to warn you. We only have two."

"Two sir?" Sam glanced up.

"Yes. Bilbo said that four books, in all, complete the story, but that the last one was lost a long time ago. Shame. But it's still one of my favorite stories none-the-less."

"It would still be worth the read," Sam agreed, feeling very scholarly. Here he was, chatting about books. And he couldn't even read!

"Well, I didn't come out here to distract you from your gardening, so maybe another time?"

Sam opened his mouth with the intention of saying something along the lines of, 'Oh, no sir. Yer not being distracting at all.' But the Gaffer was sitting near and he would think that Sam was just trying to prolong the conversation, being a _pester_ to Frodo. So instead he just said, "Happy readin'."

Frodo gave an amused grin. "Happy Gardening." And then he was off to the tree that Sam had first met him at.

"See Da'. He doesn't think I'm a pester," Sam said, turning to face him.

"Yes. Master Frodo is a pleasant lad. Now ye focus well on those Daffodils and be careful not to crush the roots. Their delicate when they're young."

-0-

That week was busy for Sam, learning all about gardening and such, and though he _did_ love gardening with his Gaffer, he was hopeful that he might get a reprieve so that Frodo could read to him again. Every day, whether Frodo was studying with Bilbo inside or reading out in the gardens alone, he came by and chatted with Sam for a couple minutes at the least. Then, he would say something like, "Well, I won't bother you anymore," and go off to do his own thing.

Once, Sam heard his Gaffer mutter under his breath, "Poor lad." But when Sam asked him what he meant by that, he just told him to mind his work.

Finally, towards the end of the week, Frodo came out to see that the two gardeners were wrapping up early. With Sam's help, the Gaffer was ahead for once and there was nothing else to be done.

"Sam, would you like me to read you the next book?" Frodo asked.

Sam grinned eagerly with a quick glance towards his Gaffer for approval.

"Go ahead, Sam. We're done for today."

Frodo and Sam settled down under the familiar tree (a tree that would later grow far more familiar in years to come, as they would go there to read when the weather was fair). He started the second book and Sam thought that it was even better than the first. It was full of action and adventure and daring escapes, the sort of things that Sam knew he would never have the courage to do himself. But that was the magic of stories, wasn't it?

Then the third book followed it, even more exciting if that was even possible, but it ended in the worst spot. Amarth and Dinelloth had just been accepted back into their woodland realm due to several of their heroic feats during their exile, but then Dinelloth had been captured by the snake's evil minions. And that was where the book had ended!

"Well, that _is_ a right shame," sighed Sam as Frodo closed the book.

"Yes, but wasn't it a good read?"

"Oh, best story I ever did hear, it was." They got up and walked back. "Do you suppose we can make up our own ending, Mr. Frodo?"

"Oh, that's a wonderful idea, Sam! So tell me, how does it end?"

"Oh, Amarth rescues Dinelloth, of course, and then they kill the evil snake together. And then," he added. "they get back home, safe and sound."

"No treasure? No titles?"

"Hmm," pondered Sam. "Some of that maybe, but I think they would just be happy living their old lives again, don't ye think? Maybe next time they know better not to go a-wakein' monsters."

Frodo laughed at this and as usual, Sam blushed and wondered if he had said something wrong. "I guess you're kind of right Sam. It _was_ their fault from the beginning."

After this, Frodo and Sam read many, many books together when they found the time, but this story was always Sam's favorite. The years passed-eleven in fact!-and the story was all but swept from Sam's mind.

_Well, as usual with everything I write, it turned out longer than I planned. This chapter was meant to be a short little prologue, but it just got out of hand. Also, I have already written a few more chapters after this one to get more in to the story and to make sure I knew where I was going with this. Turns out, I do have ideas. Anyways, read and review. Uh…have a nice day. _


	2. Rain Delays and Rosebushes

_I __do not__ own lotr or any of the characters that I am portraying poorly. The content of this fanfiction is questionable and should not be viewed by minors. . .or anybody for that matter._

_Enjoy._

**Chapter Two: Rain Delays and Rosebushes**

Frodo could hardly sleep the night before his cousins arrived he was so excited, but in the morning he woke to a darkening sky that held the promise of a delay. He threw off his covers and slipped a robe over his night shirt, splashed his face in cold water, and shuffled out into the kitchen. Bilbo was at the table eating breakfast.

He looked up. "Frodo, my boy! Good morning!"

"Is it?" He croaked grumpily. "Have you looked out the window?"

"I was hoping it wasn't going to rain today-Although, Hamfast is probably thrilled," he added. "I should tell him to get along home soon, before the weather starts up. It's going to be a big one."

Indeed, Frodo thought. The clouds looked like they were about ready to make good on their promise at any minute. And if today was like any other day, the old gardener would be toiling away somewhere in the garden and, odds were, Sam was with him.

"I'll go warn them," Frodo mumbled.

"Have a bite first. The weather should hold up for a few minutes." Bilbo motioned for Frodo to sit. He piled his plate with bacon and eggs, but didn't squander time enjoying them. He wolfed them down and left his plate on the table.

-0-

Frodo found Sam elbow deep in a tangled patch of rosebushes. His back was to Frodo and he was crouched low, but Frodo could see the cords in his neck were strained. His hair was flustered by sudden blasts of wind and Frodo could hear him muttering to himself. He looked a mess!

"Sam," Frodo started, but then he saw the cause for all Sam's frustration. "Sam, you're caught!"

Sam had jumped at Frodo's voice and turned his face, flushed red with aggravation and a sudden embarrassment, but that was as far as he could move. His arm, elbow deep, was inexplicably lost in the tangle of thorns.

"I-I can't move it," he said, shuddering a bit.

"Do you need some help?" Frodo asked. He moved closer and took Sam's forearm, ready to help him pull it out.

"No!" Sam bellowed. Frodo jumped back to shock. Never, not once, had he ever heard Sam raise his voice. Not to anyone. And certainly not to him. But then, glancing down at Sam's face, he saw tears start to pour out. His face was contorted in a grimace. "M-Mr. Frodo sir," Sam finally added, his voice shaking. "I'm so s-sorry. My arm's caught in the thorns."

Frodo cursed himself for a fool. "No Sam. It's alright. That was stupid of me. How's it caught?"

"I think I can feel three thorns poking into me," Sam grunted. "They-they're in me skin."

A wave of nausea swept over Frodo. "Alright. Here is what I am going to do. I'm going to go get the hedge clippers and cut you out. Are you alright to wait here alone."

Sam nodded, but his face suddenly blanched.

And like that, Frodo was off to the shed, running for the first time in a very, very long time. He reached it panting, but he knew he couldn't stop here. Sam had looked like he was about to pass out.

He grabbed the hedge clippers off the wall and tore back down the path, leaving the shed door hanging wide open. And as he ran, a funny thought occurred to him that Bilbo would be very irate if he found that Frodo was still running with scissors.

He had almost reached the spot where Sam waited when he was ambushed by a sudden sensation-an all too familiar sensation. It washed over him in a moment and all he could think was, "No! Not now! Please not now!" In panic, he felt his throat become tighter and his lungs began to burn. There was nothing he could do, but come to a skidding halt, drop the clippers, double over, and gasp for breath as the whole world crashed down upon his chest.

Oh! His throat seemed to have shrunk! He would suck in air-well, more like gasp it in-but he couldn't push it back out. His lungs were a pair of balloons that just kept filling. How long until they popped?

He didn't know how long he spent slumped in the grass-or was he even aware of when he came to slump in the grass. Every second was an eternity. Every breath was his last.

_Breath! Breath!_ Sam. _Breath! Breath! Breath!_ Sam.

Sam's face entered Frodo's mind. He looked as Frodo had left him: the usual glow in his cheeks gone and replaced by a sickly hue, his face twisted in pain. The Image drew him back, away from the cliff's edge. Somehow-somehow-Frodo willed himself to be calm. And slowly, ever so slowly, his breathing became easier and easier.

Finally, he found the strength to sit up. He was shaking like a leaf, but it was over. With shaking hands, he swiped the hot tears from his face and retrieved the clippers, thanking Valar that he had been delivered. As his episodes went, that one had been easy. It could have gone a whole lot worse.

He had no time to dwell, though. Sam was waiting. But this time, Frodo made sure to keep his pace slow.

He found Sam just how he had left him and wasted no time.

"Sam, are you still alright?"

"Yes, I'm fine," he answered faintly.

"I'm going to cut you out now, alright? I have the hedge clippers right here." Though Frodo declined to mention that he had never handled hedge clippers in his life.

He waited for Sam to give some kind answer to show that he had heard (and was not slowly passing out by the minute), which came in the form of a clumsy nod. Frodo set the clippers to the thickest part of the plant and snipped, but instantly regretted it. It caused quite a disturbance as it fell and the thorns cut Frodo on the knuckles. He winced, but that wasn't the worst part. Sam gave a weak holler as his arm suddenly popped loose. He flailed back and tumbled onto his bum. It had caused the thorns, jabbed into his arm, to also drag across his skin. Sam's forearm was marred and bleeding.

For the second time that day Frodo cursed himself for a fool.

Sam clutched at his arm as if trying to hold the blood in. His toes were curled into the grass.

Frodo fumbled for an apology. "Sam, I'm sorry! Here, let me help you up-there, you go. Can you stand?"

For a moment, Sam seemed to sway on his feet, but he recovered himself. Slowly, he removed his hand.

"Oh," he said, looking his forearm over. And then all of a sudden…he was back to normal Samwise. "T'was not as bad as I thought. Well, there I go getting me all worked up over nothing."

"Nothing!" Frodo exclaimed, nearly shouting. "You are bleeding all over!" He felt a bit faint just at the sight of it. Surely Sam could see how horrible the gashes were!

"It just looks bad at first. The thorns weren't as deep as I thought. They're nothing but scratches."

Frodo certainly felt faint now. He was not very accustomed to the sight of blood, spending most of his time indoors with Bilbo, his days consumed by intellectual pursuits. In the meantime, Sam was out in the garden, getting scratches and splinters and dirt in his scraped knees.

Then Frodo realized that Sam had been talking to him. "...Crying shame it is."

"What was that?" He mumbled, his tongue going dry.

"Beggin' yer parden, sir," he answered, his face flushing with some of his old color. "I was just going on that it's a shame about the rosebush."

"Oh, Sam." Frodo shook his head, but couldn't fight off the small smile once it had crept onto his lips. He glanced over to see the hole in the shrubbery that Sam was so disappointedly inspecting.

"Mr. Frodo, ye look dreadfully pale."

"Let us get you inside before you bleed out too much." _And cause me to tip over._

"Oh, don't let me be a burden. Run home awful quick, I can."

"Nonsense. I won't have you running off with cuts like those. You come inside and get washed up."

Sam didn't argue. With that, they hurried to the smial and just in time, it seemed. Just as they reached the back door, the clouds finally let loose. It all came pouring down without any warning and it was heavy and drenching and thunderously loud. They were both a bit wet before they could stumbled in over the threshold. Frodo swung the door shut and the clattering rain became a distant roar.

"Bilbo! We're in!" called Frodo.

When Bilbo replied, his voice came from the study. "Alright!" he answered, not paying any mind to the '_we're_ in'. Frodo knew his cousin well enough. Bilbo was probably sunk right in to a elvish translation or was pouring over an old map. More importantly, Frodo knew that Bilbo didn't mind Samwise. Quite the opposite. It had been eleven years now since they had first run into each other and in that time, Bilbo had taught Sam his letters. He wouldn't mind it at all if Sam, now officially a tween of twenty, were to come in to the smial.

"Oh dear!" Sam exclaimed. "I'm bleeding on yer rug. Oh, I'm sorry."

Frodo knew that Sam wouldn't feel welcome to go to the wash basin without being invited. He tugged on his torn sleeve and led Sam down the hall to the bathroom.

"Just out of curiosity," began Frodo, as Sam dipped his arm slowly into the freshly poured water. "How did you even come to be stuck like that? Where was Hamfast?"

Sam sucked in a breath as he began to wash away the blood. He kept his head down. "We was finished for the day and with the storm coming on…He'd gone home. I stayed to put everything away and do a once-over, but then I passed that bush and I thought I saw something and I reached in to get it, but…well, ye know the rest." He winced and withdrew his arm from the water. "See, Mr. Frodo. None too scary with all the blood washed away-not to say that ye were scared or nothin'. But see, nothin' but scratches."

Frodo had to admit, they looked a lot less frightening when all the blood was gone. "Do you want a towel?"

"No, no. I couldn't ask to bleed over one of yer nice white linens. T'would not be right."

"I don't see why it should matter if you are the one that washes them-here, take it."

Sam grudgingly accepted the towel. "Yer too good, sir. Me Gaffer thinks I've too much cheek as is."

"Be as cheeky as you want, my friend," Frodo replied. "Your Gaffer isn't here."

"You." Sam pointed an accusing finger. "yer nothin' but a bad influence." He cocked a grin out of the corner of his face, but it instantly faltered. He sputtered and went bright red. "Oh save me! I don't know why I said that, Mr. Frodo!"

But Frodo wasn't abashed at all by Sam's boldness. On the contrary. He was laughing. "Oh Sam! It's alright! It seems I _am_ a bad influence on you after all."

"Mercy."

Frodo's shoulders were still jittering with laughter. "How is your arm looking?" he asked politely.

Sam lifted the towel and cringed upon seeing it stained red. "The cuts look alright, I suppose. Bleeding's almost stopped now."

"That's good," Frodo sighed, leaning absent-mindedly against the wall. He could see out the window. It was coming down outside as if it had never rained before and planned never to rain again.

Sam peeked up. "Weather got ye down, Mr. Frodo?"

"Huh?" Frodo's eyes snapped away from the window. "Oh…yes. I was expecting some of my cousins today. They're going to be staying for a few weeks, over Yule, you know. Back at Brandy Hall, they were the closest to my age and we sort of ran together when we were younger. That was before-before I moved to Brandy Hall, mind." Sam glanced up, but Frodo's face was perfectly calm. "Remidoc, Aron, Darec, and Merry. Well, you wouldn't know them, of course, but-have I told you this before?"

Sam shrugged noncommittally, but there was a small, poorly restrained smile upon his face. "Maybe once or twice," he answered at length.

"So three, four, five times? You are just being kind to a very repetitive hobbit."

"Oh, ye know how forgetful I am, sir. Take's a bit more to knock something into this ninnyhammer skull of mine."

Frodo didn't know what to say to that. Sam was the most organized, attentive hobbit he knew!

"But honest," Sam continued before Frodo could completely contradict him. "It couldn't have been more than twice." Frodo let it go.

The grayness outside had deepened even more by the time Sam had proclaimed his arm to be completely clean. It had taken longer than they had thought to get the bleeding to stop. Frodo still held by that, though they were only scratches, they were still some of the nastiest scratches he had seen in a long time.

"Well, if there's nothing ye need me to do, I won't trouble ye no more," Sam said.

"Sam, no. You can wait out the storm at least. I won't send you out in _that_."

"That's mighty fine of you, sir, but I feel I've troubled you enough and my Gaffer will be wonderin'."

"Well, alright then," Frodo sighed. He showed Sam to the door, but the second he cracked it open there was a great roar that made talking impossible. Lightning lit up the sky.

Sam hesitated at the door and then jumped as the thunder followed. Frodo pushed the door shut again, which was surprisingly difficult.

"Sam," Frodo said, once he could hear again. "Stay for a bit. Please. Just until it stops raining so hard."

"Oh sir. Ye have company yer expecting."

"I wouldn't feel comfortable sending you out in that," Frodo said for the second time that day. "Please, Sam. For me." Well, Sam couldn't argue with that.

They chatted for a while, entertaining each other, though Frodo was one to speak more in a conversation and Sam tended to be the listener (but a happy and attentive one at that). Slowly, the morning passed to noontime and the rain had not yet let up a bit. Frodo had doubted that his cousins would be able to arrive today from the moment he woke up that morning, but now he was sure; Sam would be his only company for the day. That wasn't a bad thing at all, but he had so looked forward to seeing some of his old playmates. They hadn't visited in two years now. Frodo wondered if they would look any different.

Remidoc was a couple years older than Frodo and had come of age the previous year. Frodo was sorry to have missed that bash, but he had been bedridden at the time. Aron and Darec were brothers. Aron was Frodo's age and Darec was only a year younger. Those two were quite the pair, if Frodo's memory served him well; they were always fighting, always competing like strapping lads ought to. Frodo had always felt a bit mouse-ish around them, but so many of his wonderful childhood memories were attached to those two and their rather daring (and boarder-line, in Frodo's opinion) shenanigans. Then there was Merry who was the youngest, younger than Frodo by ten years. In some ways, he reminded him of Sam. He had always followed them about like a baby brother, always pushing to keep up, and stars in his youthful eyes. But in other ways, he was very much unlike Sam. For one thing, he was far, far more mischievous and completely unashamed.

He and Sam ate lunch and Bilbo came out to join them, greeting Sam without a hint of surprise or a question as to what he was still doing there. Though, he did ask about Sam's arm. Once Bilbo had gotten the whole story, he found it a bit funny just like Sam had, but Frodo still held by that those cuts were no laughing matter.

Or perhaps it wasn't the cuts that weighed on Frodo's mind. Perhaps it was the other thing.

They finished their meal and Sam stayed to wash the dishes. Frodo saw his chance. He broke off their conversation as politely as he could and went to find Bilbo in the study once again.

He knocked on the open door.

"Well, Hello Frodo," he greeted.

"I was hoping I could talk to you about something."

"Is something the matter?" Bilbo asked as he shut the book he had been reading and shuffled some papers into place. "Here, sit down."

Frodo did, but not before shutting the door behind him. He went and sunk into the crimson armchair.

"What's troubling you?"

"I'm afraid, uncle," Frodo began. "It happened again today, a few hours ago when I was outside. I had another episode."

"Oh dear," Bilbo sighed, his whole frame visibly sagging. For a moment he looked his age. "It's been a while. When was your last one?"

"A year ago, I think."

"I had hoped they had ended for good. What happened? What were you doing when it happened? Were you upset at all?"

"I was running."

"Well, that's what did it, Frodo. I've warned you about exerting yourself too much," he chastised. Then his voice softened. "How do you feel?"

"I feel alright now...really, I feel fine." Frodo added as he caught Bilbo's questioning look.

"And you were alone too," Bilbo said, shaking his head. "Oh, Frodo, that's not good. That's not good at all. You know very well what could have happened."

"I know," Frodo said soberly. "But I'm fine now. I promise I'm alright. Perhaps I was a bit shaken up, but I'm fine now."

"I'll take you to see Doctor Puddifoot. What time would you be ready to leave?"

Frodo stared at him incredulously and then began stammering. "Wait. We can't go out now-Uncle, you're not listening. I said I felt fine."

"Frodo, I'm sure your cousins won't be arriving in this weather."

"They might," he argued, but his tone was doubtful. "And Sam's here."

"I can send Samwise home," Bilbo offered, but to Frodo it sounded like a threat-sending off the one happy distraction he had had all day.

"Have you been outside today?" Frodo's tone betrayed annoyance. "You can't see ten feet in front of you! How could I send Sam home in that? And it doesn't matter if Sam could get home, because we would never make it to the Doctor anyways. I would wait until it lets up, but it has only gotten worse."

"Now don't you take that tone with me," Bilbo scolded, shaking a pen at him.

Frodo realized now that he was leaning forward in his chair, his hands gripping the arms, though he did not remember at what point in their conversation he had moved. He felt a frustrated blush rise on his cheeks as he realized how angrily he had been speaking as well. Oh, but Bilbo wasn't listening!

"My apologies," He muttered, falling back into the chair.

"I suppose I would have to make an appointment anyways," Bilbo said thoughtfully. His voice was gentle again. "Doctor Puddifoot doesn't take walk-ins unless it's an emergency."

Frodo sighed as the tension ebbed from the room. And then he jumped.

_Was that a knock at the door I just heard?_

"Was that the door?" asked Bilbo, confirming that Frodo was indeed not suffering from an air deprivation induced hallucination.

Frodo jumped up, a look of wonder on his face, saying, "Well, I can't keep them waiting in the rain, can I?"

"Frodo, wait," Bilbo said. His forehead wrinkled in concern and he seemed to be grappling with what to say. Finally, he just gave a sigh and asked, "Are you alright?"

"Uncle-," Frodo started, but there was another rap on the door, louder and more urgent this time. "I'll see Puddifoot this week sometime." But Frodo knew that wasn't what Bilbo was asking. "I'm just a bit shaken," he gave. "That's all."

Then, without waiting for his Uncle's answer, he bounded out of the room and down the hall. There was nothing that could ruin this visit. Not even a relapse. He looked down the hall and saw is cousins tumble on in like sacks of flour (very, very wet flour) and he felt like he was returning to a happy, childish world. He forgot all his troubles in a second.


	3. Beset by Cousins

Sezza: Why thank you:) I write because I love to write, but it's always encouraging to hear that other people enjoy it.

_I __do not__ own lotr or any of the characters that I am portraying poorly. The content of this fanfiction is questionable and should not be viewed by minors. . .or anybody for that matter._

_Enjoy._

**Chapter Three: Beset by Cousins**

Sam was humming to himself an old, industrious tune while he cleaned the dishes and stacked them nice and neat-like. He finished quickly and whipped his hands dry, sighing with contentment. If he had to be stuck here, at least he had some work to do. There was something that felt so wrong about lying about Bag End. It was difficult for Sam to explain, even to himself.

Take the chairs, for example; they certainly looked comfortable enough (oh yes sir, they looked like one could sink right in and never get up again), but whenever Sam was invited to sit in one, which was not often (thank Valar), he could hardly bring himself to sit, much less relax in one. Oh, but that was just how Bag End and everything in it was. The wood-carven moldings and finishes that ornamented the walls and doorways were beautiful and craftsman-like, and oh so _textured_. It was something that begged to be felt, but Sam never touched them. There were old paintings that were hung about, but Sam never stopped to stare. Bag End was simply like that: wondrous, fantastical even. It had stirred his imagination when he was just a little sprout of a hobbit. But it was unreachable. Who was he to sit in the soft chairs with his dirty trousers, or touch the wood carvings with his calloused hands, or stare at the paintings with his uncultured eyes?

It was forbidden. Through some unspoken rule, it was forbidden.

Sam itched at his hands, trying to think of something he could do. Every chore had been finished, at least the indoor chores were. He needed something to do. Something to do…

Feeling very silly, he began to rewash the dishes. He only got so far when he heard a knock at the door. Or at least that was what it sounded like. But a knock at the door didn't really make much sense, did it? Not in this weather.

There it came again.

Oh no, he wouldn't make Frodo answer the door! Sam dropped what he was doing and hastened towards the door, thinking to himself that it couldn't be. No it couldn't be…

He flung the door open and four figures tumbled over the threshold, nearly taking him down with them. He jumped back just in time.

"Ouch! Watch it, Darec!"

"Good going, Merry!"

"It's not my fault the ground was slippery!"

"Get off! Get off of me!"

Sam stared dumfounded at the writhing hobbit pile, made up of large, kicking feet and sopping wet cloaks. Were these Frodo's friends? Frodo's _gentlehobbit_ friends?

"You're here?" Came Mr. Frodo's voice. Sam swung around to see him coming down the hallway, a look of astonishment on his face.

"Frodo!" Cried Mr. Merry, untangling himself from the pile and stumbling forward to throw his arms around Mr. Frodo's middle. "Sorry we're late!"

"Late! I didn't expect you to come at all! Oh Merry! You've gotten me wet!"

There was a flash of lightning and a crash of thunder that set Sam's teeth a-chattering and made him want to hold the wall for support.

"Get the door closed, Aron!" shouted one of them.

There was another flash, but the door swung shut before the thunder could sound. Even still, Sam felt it rumble up through the floor and into his feet.

"Sorry we're late, cousin," said Mr. Remidoc as he lifted himself to his feet. If Sam remembered right, he was the one that had come of age last year, or so he had been told by Frodo. He made Sam feel like a child.

"I didn't think you were coming, with the storm and all."

"We set out last night," piped in Merry. "We decided we could just sleep in the carriage and drive through the night. By the time the storm hit, we were already more than halfway. Wouldn't make much sense to turn back, would it?"

"I guess not," smiled Frodo. "Your driver-."

"Already turning back. Don't worry yourself," assured Mr. Remidoc. "That was the plan. He drives us up, we jump out, and he gets himself back to Brandy Hall."

"Is that safe?"

"He's fine. Don't worry about it. Basil has been working for us for twenty years now. He can handle a bit of rain."

Frodo didn't look very assured at all, but he let it go. "Aron, Darec. I see you two haven't changed much. Still wrestling."

The two remaining hobbits on the floor seemed perfectly content with watching the back-and-forth from the threshold, still squirming in their soaked cloaks and pushing at each other whenever one tried to get up.

"Not true!" laughed Mr. Aron (my, he had a loud voice). "I've grown a whole inch!"

"And I've grown two!" shouted Mr. Darec, earning a round of chuckles. He slipped away from his brother and jumped to his feet. Not to be outdone, Mr. Aron followed.

"So tell us. Who's taller? Me or Aron?"

Oh they were both tall, Sam thought. Hulking, even. Taller than Mr. Frodo.

And Frodo seemed to realize this too, for he took a step back, laughing and shaking his head. "Aron still has an inch on you."

Darec hung his head and swung his arms in mock disappointment. Frodo just shook his head muttering something along the lines of, "No, you haven't changed a bit." Then-

"Would you like to dry off?" he asked, eyeing the puddle that was forming on the floor.

"Yes!" cheeped Merry. "Frodo, you are a very good towel!" and he set to hugging Frodo again.

"Merry!" Frodo squirmed, but couldn't escape. Mr. Merry had quite the grip when he put his mind to it.

"How rude, Frodo!" exclaimed Darec in mock offense. "He hasn't seen you in two years and you won't even let him hug you?! I think you have been deprived of proper friends for too long!" Then he went up and hugged the thrashing Frodo as well.

"Ah! Come on! This is a nice shirt!"

"What do you say, cousin," said Aron, joining in. "How about a hug!"

Oh, by now Mr. Frodo was just as wet as his cousins were, but he was laughing now and shrieking. Mr. Remidoc stood by, watching the tomfoolery like Sam was. He didn't join in, but he was laughing just as hard.

Sam felt a little awkward just watching (not that he would ever dream of joining in). 'oh,' he thought to himself. 'I should have waited in the kitchen like a good servant. Or better yet, run along home when I had the chance.'

Frodo finally managed to duck out of the hug, but it was all too late. His nice white shirt (which wasn't quite as white anymore) was soaked through and clung to his skin. His nice hair was slicked up comically. If it had been only him and Sam together, Sam would have laughed at his master's disheveled appearance and-oh!-the look on his face.

Remidoc ruffled Frodo's hair down. "Still short enough for me to do this. I suppose at this point you won't be growing anymore."

Frodo just rolled his eyes and remarked, "Only horizontally from here on."

Aron came up behind him. "Say, cousin, could you have your servant take our trunks to our room?"

"The large room, I'm assuming," added Remidoc. "Like old times."

"Oh yes," Said Frodo, a small, remembering smile on his face. "Sam, would you mind?"

"Right away, Mr. Frodo," he answered quickly. Sam glanced around for their baggage. Sure enough, their things had been dropped on the threshold and forgotten in all the excitement. Frodo led his company into the parlor, chatting adamantly, and Sam could breathe a sigh of relief. At once, he set about carrying their things to the large guestroom down the hall. Their trunks and bags were light, but they had a good many. By the time Sam finished, to his dismay, he was sweating just a bit.

Now standing in the large guestroom, he drew back the yellow curtains and peaked out the window. What Sam could see of the rain-striped world was grey and gloomy. This was the worst sort of weather. Sure, rain was nice sometimes, but at this time of year it was freezing cold and had an unfortunate likelihood of turning to sleet in the middle of the night. Oh, at this rate, he wouldn't be leaving any time soon. He might even have to spend the night, and if that didn't make Sam feel like a bum servant, there wasn't much that would.

-0-

Frodo and his cousins had finished diner late because of all their catching up so it was pitch black outside by the time they had retired to the large guestroom. Sam had lit the fireplace so that it was warm and cozy. There was a yellow glow in the room.

"Thank you, Sam," said Frodo, as Sam padded down the hallway to the small guestroom at the end of the hall.

"Least I can do, sir," he mumbled back, looking a bit like a retreating dog, tail between his legs. Oh, Frodo was aware of how uncomfortable Sam was, especially in the presence of his cousins. He ignored Sam's poor confidence most of the time-it was just the way he was-but sometimes Frodo felt a bit downed by it. He had known Sam for years now, had been talking to him and spending time with him like a real friend, but Sam still wasn't quite at ease around him. Why couldn't Sam understand that it didn't matter to Frodo that he was lower in class? And Frodo didn't dare talk to him about it, because he would just apologize.

Now Frodo really felt like an ass.

He had asked Sam to sleep in the large guestroom with them, hoping that Sam would relax and join in. But he had just gotten an embarrassed and mumble reply. Frodo knew that Sam was already far beyond his comfort level staying overnight at Bag End. Oh why did he have to push it?

He closed the door and went to get his nightshirt out of the old wardrobe in the corner.

"Why so down, cousin?" asked Remidoc, who had already changed and was lying on the farthest bed.

"It's nothing," answered Frodo, already forgetting his melancholy. "I see you're already ready for bed. Where's the others?"

"Changing."

Frodo sat on the bed next to him, staring at the floor. "You have really changed, Remi."

"How?" he asked, not even looking up.

"It's nothing really. You just seem a bit quiet. I was going to ask if everything is alright."

"You seem a bit quiet too, Frodo," He said. Frodo gave him a questioning look. He had been chatting all night. "No, maybe that's not the word for it. More like, Preoccupied."

Frodo laughed. "It's just strange seeing you all after so long. I will admit, I feel a bit thrown. Aron and Darec, they've gotten so tall. And Merry. But you've changed too, and not in height."

Remidoc shrugged and said, "When you reach a certain age, you…well, you grow up."

Frodo smiled and let it go. Maybe he would be like Remidoc come next September. Who was he to know?

Raucous laughter broke out from inside the closet. The door opened and issued Aron, Darec, and Merry.

"What's going on?" asked Frodo.

"Oh, nothing," answered Aron. "Just an inside joke."

Remidoc smiled and turned over in his bed. "Now let's get some shut-eye," he said. "Or else we won't have any energy for a tour around Hobbiton tomorrow."

Ten minutes later found all of them settle in bed, with Remidoc already snoring. That's when the fun began.

"Frodo," hissed Aron. "Psst! _Froooooodooooooo_."

"What?" Frodo whispered back.

"What do you think of Remidoc?"

Frodo shrugged. "He seems matured."

"Then you've noticed. _Let's get some shut-eye so that we have enough energy to tour Hobbiton_. He's a complete bore now, just like one of the adults."

"He _is_ and adult," said Frodo, rolling over to look at Aron in the dim light. "What happened to him anyways?"

"He's courting a lass, last time I heard. He won't tell us who though."

"I wouldn't tell you either."

Merry and Darec soon joined into the conversation. They didn't just talk about Remidoc's strange change, but ranged to many topics, topics they didn't get to cover at the dinner table. Two hours flew by and by then Frodo knew he wasn't going to be getting much shut-eye at all.

"So," Aron eventually said. "We should play that game that we used to play. Remember, Frodo?"

"What game," asked Merry, his head going back and forth between his cousins. "Why haven't I heard of this?"

Darec rolled over in his bed and said, "You were always too young, Merry."

Merry snorted with annoyance. "Well, I'm not too young now. Out with it!"

"Shhhhhh!" hushed Frodo, glancing over to see Remidoc shift in his bed. He held his breath, waiting for him to wake and chide them, but he didn't. He just mumbled something incoherent and continued on with his snoring. Frodo slowly turned back and whispered quietly. "Really, Aron. We haven't played that game in years."

"Not you too, Frodo. Come on, just be a kid before you have to be an adult."

"Please, Frodo," Merry joined in.

"Come on, Frodo," said Darec. "For us."

"By Valar," Frodo sighed. "Alright, alright, but we have to be quiet."

Merry hopped out of his covers and sat on the edge of his bed. "Great! So what's the game?"

"Shhhhhhh!" hushed Frodo again. And then in a softer voice, "It's called 'Truth or Dare'. It's a bit of a…prankster's game. Sort of. Remidoc first learned it from some of the older cousins. They used to play it back in the day, but their parents made them stop after they learned of it."

"Why?"

"Because they always took it too far and dared each other to do these ridiculous pranks." Frodo laughed. "I heard, in one game a long time ago, Remi was dared to sleep naked in the kitchen cupboards. I wasn't at Brandy Hall yet, but I can only imagine what their cook thought when he found him there the next morning. In fact, I think that that was the stunt that ended the whole game."

"He did that?" Merry asked, more impressed than anything else. Frodo nodded. "Great! What are the rules?"

"You're sure, Merry?" asked Aron, knowing full well that his warning would only spur his younger cousin on. "They're not always easy dares and you can't quit halfway through."

"Promise! Now what are the rules?"

"We go around the circle, taking turns," started Frodo. "Say, if it's my turn, I could pick, say, Darec. Then I would say, 'Darec, truth or dare?' and he would say…"

"Truth," answered Darec.

"Then I would ask him a question, any question, that he would have to answer honestly."

"Yes," goaded Merry.

"In the case of a dare, well, I would dare him to do something."

"Yes."

"It could be anything at all, granted it's not illegal."

"Yes."

"Calm down, Merry. You've going to wake Remi," Frodo warned. "Do you get it?"

"Do you have to do the dare?" he asked.

"Yes, or else you get banished from the game forever."

"Those are the rules," Aron cut in. "Now let's get on with it already. I'll go first. Darec, truth or dare?"

Darec rolled his eyes. "Truth."

"Let's see…Who was the first lass you kissed?"

"Amethyst Brown-shut up, Frodo-Alright, that was easy. My turn now." He tapped his chin and looked from his brother to Frodo to Merry, and that's where his eyes stopped. "Merry, truth or dare?"

"Dare!"

Darec grinned at his luck. "I dare you to…lick Remi's forehead."

"Darec," Frodo chastised. "Merry, don't wake him."

Merry just laughed at that. "No problem!" then he got up, walked over to Remidoc's bed, bent his head, and completed the dare.

Darec bit his rather large fist to keep from laughing out loud. Merry came and sat back down with a proud look upon his round face. "My turn. Aron, truth or dare?"

"Dare," he said stoutly, not to be outdone.

"Hrmm…I dare you to…" Merry's face lit up. "Go get me one of those nice dinner cakes from the pantry."

"Merry," he whined.

"Nope! You _have_ to do it."

Grudgingly, Aron rose from the bed and sneaked out to the kitchen on silent feet, returning only a minute later with his glowing plunder, a rather crumbled seed cake. He handed it to the youngest cousin, who accepted it with a smug grin and a hungry gleam in his eyes.

"My turn," he said. Then, his gaze fell on Frodo. "Frodo, truth or dare."

Frodo huffed. "Truth."

"Ah, now what would really shake my delicate cousin?" he thought out loud.

Frodo crossed his arms in defiance. "I'm not so delicate as you would think."

A troubling grin spread across Aron's face. "Alright. The truth, Frodo. When did you first find out that you could bring yourself off."

Frodo blushed instantly, stammering incoherently. Finally, he was able to grumble, "Do-do you really want to know that?"

"Not really, but the look on your face-you're face-oh it's very much worth it."

At length, Frodo muttered, "19. That's normal, for when it starts."

"I don't know, Frodo. That's a bit late," he teased. "But thank Valar you finally figured it out."

"Alright, alright. That's enough of that," he said with a wave of his hand. "My turn."

The antics continued deep into the night and into the earliest hours of morning, but Frodo didn't tire, for he had to keep on his toes. With each passing round, the questions and the dares got a little more difficult, a little more personal, though they didn't get much worse than the question he had gotten from Aron early in the game. Then, there came a point in the game where one dare, directed at Frodo, went farther than he had anticipated.

"I can't do that," said Frodo. "Let's just keep the game in this room."

But Darec, the darer, refused to retract his dare. "It's simple. Go into Bilbo's drawer, in the study, and flip all of his papers back-to-front. You're not even messing them up. It would just be a bit of an annoyance. No harm done."

"But what would I say if he caught me."

"Don't be caught," Darec retorted. "And he's asleep."

Frodo pleaded with him to take the dare back, but he had no mercy. And so, Five minutes later, Frodo crept out the door and down the unlit hallway, trying not to run into anything. He passed Sam's room and entered the study, where he set to work with nothing but his knowledge of the room's layout.

He found the desk in the dark, pulled the drawer open, and quickly got to work. He was almost finished, when his fingers brushed across something that he did not intend to find: a book. Now, usually it wouldn't been odd, seeing as the study had many books, but Frodo remembered how Bilbo shelved every single one of his books when he was done with one. He didn't leave them on the desk or floor, and he certainly didn't leave them crunched into his drawer. The only reason Bilbo would have it stuffed away, like so, under such a weight of papers was if he had purposely put it there to keep it from being found.

Frodo drew it out slowly, being careful not to catch the binding on a corner or anything that could damage it. _Strange._ Forgetting his task, he closed the drawer and padded back to the room, silent as a mouse. He slipped into the dim light.

"Done, Frodo?" asked Darec.

"Yes, yes, sure."

"What do you have there?" inquired Merry.

Frodo lifted the book into the soft lighting, which was just enough to read it by. Then his mouth fell open.

Merry sat up. "Frodo? What is it?"

"A book," Frodo answered dumbly.

"I can see _that_. What's the book?"

"_Amarth and Dinelloth_," he read out loud, both of his hands now gripping it. "_Book the Forth_."

_ So sorry it took three chapters to get to this point. I will admit the second chapter is kind of boring, but I wanted to show Frodo and Sam's initial relationship. From here the story picks up. Plz r&r. :) _


	4. The Elvish Book

_I __do not__ own lotr or any of the characters that I am portraying poorly. The content of this fanfiction is questionable and should not be viewed by minors. . .or anybody for that matter._

_Enjoy._

_**Warning: This is definitely an **__**M rated**__** chapter so read at your own risk.**_

**Chapter Four: The Elvish Book**

"So…what about it?" asked Pippin, breaking Frodo out of his own thoughts. They were all looking at him now with concerned looks upon their faces. Darec and Aron, for once, were completely silent.

Frodo was about to explain, but something stopped him. "Nothing about it," he said at length. "It's a long story."

The brothers just shrugged at that, and then Aron said, "Well, how did the paper shuffling go?"

"Oh, imagine Cousin Bilbo's face," laughed Darec, reassuming the room's attention. "Do you think he will get a kick out of it, Frodo?"

"Oh, I'm sure," Frodo answered, but in truth he was beginning to feel a bit guilty. It wasn't so funny now that he thought about it, but was it worth it? 'Oh yes,' Frodo thought. 'It was most defiantly worth the trouble.' He clutched the book closely.

"I think I'm getting a bit tired now," he added. "I'll be heading off to bed."

Aron made a strangled sound in the back of this throat. "Frodo, it won't be any fun with only three."

"I suppose I'm a bit tired too," yawned Merry.

"You too?" Then Aron turned to his brother. "I suppose you want to go to bed also."

"Not really," answered Darec, lying back in his bed. "But I'm not going to play with just _you_."

With that, they extinguished the last of the light and Frodo nestled warmly into the darkness. He truly was tired, but try as he might, he could not fall asleep. It must have been almost two o' clock by now. Under the covers, he held the book to his side. It prodded his ribcage again and again with every restless shift he made. Questions buzzed in his head, snippets of thoughts that wouldn't let him be.

_And I can't even read it now._

_ When will I be able to read it? I'm entertaining my cousins for the next couple weeks._

_ Why was it hidden?_

_ Will I have to sneak away to the bathroom to read it? Yes, it will probably come down to that._

_ Oh, wait until I tell Sam!_

_ No, Sam will make himself scarce for the next couple week, if I know him at all. _

_ Poor Sam._

_ Why did Bilbo keep it hidden?_

_ Yes, why would it be hidden away? He said it was lost many years ago. Lost in his drawer? Unlikely. Bilbo goes through that drawer for his Elvish translations nearly every day._

_ Why would he keep it from me?_

Frodo didn't know how long he laid there, victim to himself, but finally he dropped off. And when he did, he dreamed…

_Frodo was aware of several things. First, he was standing in the midst of a vast forest, though he didn't bother to look about. It was just a swirl of green around him and there was nothing in particular to see. He moved on through the woods, or perhaps the woods were moving on past him. He didn't give any thought to it, for he suddenly found himself at the mouth of a yawning cave._

_The second thing he was aware of was that he was an Elf. And not just any Elf, but Amarth. His dark hair was no longer curly, but instead it hung straight in long tresses and was held behind his Elven ears. He could see a fey glow off his skin that fell upon the world around him, a world that was now hopelessly dark, for the next thing he knew, he found himself in the belly of the cave. For his life, he couldn't remember walking in. _

_For what felt like eternity he wandered through different passages. They were damp and smelled of seedy purposes. The water drips resounded endlessly. It was lightless, but he found his way._

_Whether he was searching for something in the cave or for the way out, he did not know, but whatever it was, he was not finding it. There was no panic in his heart, no fear or foreboding. Nothing was happening. On and on he went, searching aimlessly, numbly._

_Suddenly he heard his name being called. The voice was far away, but he followed it with his Elven ears easily enough. To his utter shock, it did not call for 'Amarth', but instead-_

"_Frooodddooo…" it came again, closer now. Frodo was running now, twisting through the meandering tunnels, this way and that. He couldn't find a straight path to the voice. The tunnels-they were changing on him! _

"_Frooodddooo…help!" It was no longer a whispering voice, but a cry of fear. "Frodo! Help me!"_

"_I'm coming!" Frodo shouted. "I'm coming! Where are you?!"_

"_Help me!"_

_Frodo's heart raced. "I can't find you!" _

_"Help!" the voice sobbed. _

_ "Please!" Frodo cried, now on the verge of tears. He was tearing through the tunnels now. "I can't find you!"_

_ Frodo came to a door, random, but he paid no mind and flung it open. What he found was a hallway filled with doors and within each those doors, more hallways, filled with more doors. _

_ "Help me! Oh, please help me!" Frodo followed the voice on and on through endless doors and hallways, doors and hallways. "It's got me!"_

_ "Where are you?! Where are you?!"_

_ "It's got me! Help me! Help me, Mr. Frodo!"_

_ That sent a shot through Frodo's heart, for there was one person he knew who called him that. He tore through one more door and stumbled into the next hallway, but dropped instantly. He tried to fight it-oh he tried-but he couldn't breathe._

_ "Help me, Mr. Frodo! Where are you?!" _

_ He wanted to call back, he needed to get up and help the owner of that familiar voice, but-but-but-_

Frodo jolted awake to find his face smothered into his pillow. He jumped out of bed, gasping for breath and took off out the door, finding yet another hallway. Without a thought, he tore down to the farthest door and flung it open.

"SAM!"

"Mr. Frodo?!"

Now Frodo hadn't known what to expect when he came barging in. Perhaps Sam would have been held captive by the evil snake, just like in the book (that he was, absurdly enough, still clutching in one hand). Maybe Sam had fallen and was injured, or perhaps trapped in a cave collapse.

Frodo wasn't prepared to find Sam standing in the middle of the little guestroom in nothing but a pair of breeks.

Sam's eyes were wide, as wide as Frodo had ever seen them and he opened and closed his mouth like a fish out of water. He seemed to be trying to speak, but was too stunned to do so. Frodo was stunned too; confused, really. Where had the cave gone? The infinite number of doors? The endless hallways?

Oh.

Slowly, he realized what had happened. This Sam was no figment of a dreaming mind.

Then Frodo noticed another thing; perhaps, a strange thing to notice. Sam was more naked than he had ever seen him. Sam never removed his shirt while working in the gardens. Not even on the hottest days. But here he stood before Frodo, his chest glazed in the early morning light, looking somehow broader and more matured without a shirt. How long had those polished muscles hidden under crude fabric?

"Oh no," said Frodo, but his voice barely came out. "I had this dream…"

The door shutting behind him was a distant sound.

To his shock, Sam crossed the room. The surprise on his face was still there, but accompanied with a look of concern. Frodo's first instinct was to take a step back. Sam was looking him straight in the eye now. He wasn't looking _up_ at him like he had always done, but was right _there_ at eye level (if not looking down just a bit). When had Sam grown that tall? Frodo shrunk.

"Frodo! Yer crying!" Said Sam in alarm. Frodo could feel Sam's breath lightly on his face.

"No, I'm not," Frodo quibbled dumbly.

"Yes, ye are," Sam insisted, raising his thumb. Frodo nearly jumped out of his skin as he felt Sam brush something wet off his cheek. "A dream you say?"

_It certainly feels like a dream_, Frodo nearly said out loud. Why was his heart hammering like this? It was only Sam. "Uh, yes," he stammered eventually. "A nightmare, I suppose."

"Well, ye look right feverish. Yer face is burning up."

"I feel more foolish than anything else," Frodo sighed, hanging his head a bit. "I didn't mean to scare you, Sam. My dream-it was all very…disorienting."

"Well, ye certainly gave me a turn, I won't lie," chuckled Sam. "But I understand. Ye see, I used to be a sleep walker meself. Did I ever tell you about the time I woke up in yer garden, pulling weeds?"

"What?"

"Yes, it was about three years ago now. I must have sleepwalked to yer garden sometime in the night and started working in my sleep."

Frodo laughed nervously. "No, I don't think you've ever told me this one."

"I remember feeling very ashamed, because I had plucked out a whole bunch of nice daisies along with the weeds. They were just getting ready to bloom too," He said wistfully. Frodo just reminded himself to breathe, but it didn't do much good. He was just close enough that he could smell Sam. It was a very pleasant sort of scent; earthy, solid. Overpowering. What was wrong with him?

Then Sam seemed to sense Frodo's hesitation and he drew back a bit, glancing down. "Oh! Me clothes!" He cried, his golden face turning a bright red. He quickly turned his back and slinked over to the bed, where his shirt lay folded. "I-I'm sorry, Mr. Frodo," he stuttered, pulling the rough cloth over his head. "I didn't realize-I forgot meself. Oh, call me a Ninnyhammer!"

"No, it's alright Sam," assured Frodo, trying not to look like he was catching his breath.

Sam turned around once again, this time decent, and shuffled back over. "I didn't mean t' act so indecently. My Gaffer always says it's me feather-head that's going to land me in trouble one a' these days."

It really was no trouble. Or was it? Frodo couldn't decide. Regardless, he needed to get his mind off of it. "Oh, that's right," he chuckled. "So we were playing this game last night. I won't bore you with the details, but I ended up getting dared to sneak into Bilbo's study and mix up his papers a bit."

"Uh-huh?" said Sam, looking a bit confused at the change of topic.

Frodo pushed on. "And I-well, I came across this." Frodo held up the book. "_Amarth and Dinelloth._ It's the fourth book, Sam."

"No," Sam gasped in shock, his mouth falling open. He searched the cover himself, his lips moving as he read the title. "How…?"

"I don't know," smiled Frodo. He remembered reading the first three books over and over again to Sam in previous years. Not recently, but it rekindled the old memories as if they had happened just yesterday. His grin became wicked. "I don't know about you, but I'm feeling a bit wily. I don't know why Bilbo kept the book hidden away, but I think we're going to find out."

"Would we get in trouble, sir?"

"Only if we got caught. I don't know when we'll find the time to read it, but once we finish, we'll put it right back and Bilbo will be none the wiser."

"Oh, I don't know. Now, don't get me wrong, sir, because I really do want to read it. Very, very much, but what if we get caught? What if he t-tells me Gaffer?"

"I'm sorry, Sam. I won't _make_ you read it with me, but it won't be any fun without you. It's _our_ book after all, just between us I mean."

Sam swelled with pride at that. "That it is, sir."

"So?"

"Well, I suppose we can't _not_ read it now, can we? Not after finding it after so many years. Gave up on it years ago, I did. But here it is."

"Yes," agreed Frodo. "I feel exactly the same way. We don't really have a choice. But when?"

"I work all this week, Mr. Frodo. Can you wait until the week's end?"

"Yes, that-" But Frodo was cut off by a knock at the door. "Yes, come in," he answered without thinking.

Bilbo opened the door, his reading spectacles glinting in the light. "Frodo? You're in here?"

"Oh, yes I am, Uncle. I got up to get a drink, but I saw Sam-" _Getting dressed_. "-getting ready to leave, so I thought I'd just say 'hullo'."

"I see. Well, whenever you're ready Samwise, I suppose. The weather has really turned out wonderful this morning."

"Right, Mr. Bilbo. Well, 'hullo', Mr. Frodo and good bye," he said shyly, but there was a glint of mischief in his eyes that Frodo was not accustomed to seeing in him.

"Go back to bed, Frodo," Bilbo said kindly. "Samwise, I can show you out."

Frodo's bed was still warm when he returned to it and, oh, so comforting. He was suddenly very tired again, but just before he dropped off, he stowed the elvish book beneath the mattress so that no one could discover his and Sam's little secret.

-0-

That day, Frodo rose late in the morning with his cousins and took them about Hobbiton, but they quickly ran out of entertainment since they had visited only two years before. In the end, they ate an early supper at the Green Dragon and left before most of the drinking started. Aron and Darec were certainly game for a bit of carousing, and Merry would have jumped at the opportunity to earn his first hangover and see what all the complaining was about, but Remidoc wanted to get back.

Just as they returned home, they crossed Sam on the road. He was going home for his Supper after a long day of hard work and was humming a jaunty tune to himself. He nodded to Frodo as they passed.

"Good evening, Sam," Frodo called, his tone of voice betraying a gleefulness that he hadn't quite shown in the presence of his cousins. In the back of his mind, he heard his own voice and could just imagine the looks on his cousins' faces just then. Sam seemed a bit surprised too by the look of him.

"G-good evening to you too, Mr. Frodo, sir," Sam said shyly, his cheeks just a smidge pinker. Then, he continued on down the road like before, but he didn't pick up a tune again.

Frodo turned back to cousins to find them looking at him like he had carrots coming out of his ears, especially Remidoc.

"What?"

The next couple days were spent in that fashion. They would rise late in the morning, go about town, and return home to chat the night through, or play games. It was fun and all, but their fun was tempered by Remidoc, who wouldn't involve himself in anything un-gentlehobbitly. On the third day, though, he received an urgent message from home that his great-great-grand-aunt had passed away.

Frodo was sorry for him, but (ashamedly) glad to see him return home. It wasn't a problem. Remidoc would return for Yule, like all of the other Brandybucks. Yes, Bag End would be swarmed this year, but until Yuletide, it was down to the four of them.

The next day, while gallivanting about with his cousins, Frodo slipped in a puddle of mud and was forced to return home before he was spotted by any unfriendly relatives. He was sure that he saw Lobelia Sackville-Baggins milling about with her Lotho, but he didn't stick around to find out for sure. Merry and the brothers waved him off as he followed the treeline back to Bag End, avoiding the road if he could.

He slunk in through the great, green door and down the hall to the bathroom, where he got himself cleaned up quickly enough. Only when he had finished his bath did he realize that he had forgotten to grab some fresh clothing.

Towel wrapped lowly about his narrow hips, he made his way down the hall to his own bedroom, but he stopped abruptly. He heard shuffling sounds coming from the study, and Bilbo's low voice muttering, "This can't be right."

Then, more shuffling sounds, the shuffling of paper. Frodo's skin was covered in goosebumps, but he had now forgotten all about getting dressed. "What could have happened to that book?" Came Bilbo's voice again. His distress was clear. "If I put it away in the bookshelf and Frodo were to find it…" He trailed off, and suddenly there was the sound of books being slid off the shelves in twos and threes.

'So he has finally noticed that it's gone,' thought Frodo, his ears straining. 'I will not be able to return it now without arousing suspicion.'

Bilbo's step was light, but Frodo could hear him walking to the door. Quick as he could, Frodo scrambled into the guestroom and shut the door behind him. He ran over to the bed and checked under the mattress to settle his nerves. There, bound in red, and a little ribbon hanging out to mark the pages, lay the book, just as Frodo had left it. And as quickly as he had stowed it away, he snatched it up again.

There was a knock on the door, causing Frodo to drop it. "Frodo? Is that you?"

"Y-yes, Uncle," he squeaked. "I'm getting dressed." There was a long pause. "See, I fell in some mud outside _The_ _Ivy Bush_ and came back to clean up."

"Alright then," was the answer, and then Frodo could hear his footsteps retreating down the hall.

Frodo let out his breath.

"All this trouble…" He muttered bending down to retrieve the book, which had fallen open to the first page. He was about to close it when he suddenly halted. Like a moth to a flame, his eyes were drawn to that very first line.

_Amarth crouched in the tall grass, hidden to all, and cried bitterly, for there was nothing; nothing to comfort him in his loneliness and failure, and though he called for his closest friend, Dinelloth could not hear, and even if he did, he could not come…_

Frodo's eyes were drawn on, like a child being led by his mother's hand. He couldn't stop there. He didn't even think to.

_…And Amarth knew that it was all his fault, his fault that Loki had taken Dinelloth right from under his nose. They had been separated for only a moment, but that little moment had cost him dearly. He was never to see his friend again... _

Frodo read on and soon found himself turning the page, resting on the bed in nothing but his towel, though he did not remember sitting down. Then a second page was turned, and a third, and a fourth, and a tenth.

Perhaps he was a bit guilty for starting without Sam, but he had read all the other books on his own too before sharing them with the lad, so it was all okay, right? Yes, of course it was. Besides, whatever guilt that he did feel was not enough to stop him now.

He turned the pages eagerly as Amarth hatched a harebrained scheme to sneak into the snake's lair and rescue Dinelloth. Oh, it was getting good. And here he was almost caught, and there he was almost killed. The book dragged Frodo on, not that he was grudging to follow, and finally he reached the part where Amarth fights a long, gripping battle. There were times when Frodo found himself holding his breath. Finally, Amarth is able to cast his enemy down. Then, wounded and weary, he drags himself to find Dinelloth.

_"Amarth," Dinelloth said hoarsely, gazing up at his friend who was sheathed in the light from the doorway and only half believing what he saw. "You. You came for me."_

_ "Of course I did," said Amarth, suddenly on the verge of tears. He crouched down and broke the shackles off Dinelloth with a heavy rock. With abandonment, he leaned down and embraced his friend on the floor, for he was afraid to move him just yet. "Have they hurt you, Dinelloth?"_

_Dinelloth was astonished to feel tears land upon his breast. "It doesn't matter now," he managed to choke out. "You've come."_

_ Amarth held him like that for a time, but eventually rocked him up into his arms, cradling him to his chest and promising him that he would never let him go again. Dinelloth could do nothing but stare in wonder up at his friend's weeping face, for he still couldn't believe that he was here and that the snake was dead. And that everything was going to be alright. _

_There were so many things that he wanted to say, but he couldn't find the words. He was half delirious with exhaustion as it was and it didn't take long at all for him to give in. His sleep was deep and untroubled. _

_The next thing he knew he was waking to find himself in his own room. Home. And sitting next to the bed was Amarth, blinking at him in surprise. _

_ "You're awake!" he exclaimed, grabbing Dinelloth by the shoulders. "You're finally awake!"_

_ "Then that wasn't just a dream," he said slowly. Suddenly he sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed._

_ "Dinelloth! What are you doing?! Careful!" Amarth's hands flew up trying to push him down._

_ "No! I need to tell you…"_

_ "You're still weak. Lie down," he commanded, but Dinelloth still fought him and grabbed his hand to stop his pushing. He had grabbed it, but didn't let it go and instead pressed it tighter. Amarth stilled and look closely at his friend. Dinelloth's eyes were more serious that he had ever seen them, but were not grave or grim. They bore a different emotion that he could not read._

_ He leaned in. "What is it?" he asked, but his voice barely came out._

_ Dinelloth's eyes bored into him. He froze as if frightened, but it was not fear that he felt deep in his heart. Absently, Amarth could feel his friend's hand untangle from his and languidly drag up his arm, the round fingernails drawing trails of fire along his skin. They reached higher, over his shoulder and up his neck to cup his cheek. Dinelloth's eyes still did not leave him._

_ "Dinelloth?" he whispered, but his voice barely came out. His face was on fire, but he wouldn't dream of asking it to stop._

_ Then that hand was in his hair. And he understood. Everything._

_ The impact of his revelation was staggering and as he looked back into Dinelloth's eyes like he had done a hundred times, but now in a different way than ever before, he wondered to himself: 'How long?'_

_ Dinelloth seemed to read his mind. "For years now I have been in torment, Amarth. So close to you and yet so far. You were always the smart one, you know, and you always had beautiful girls following you with their eyes. I always cursed myself that I would never have you. I never had the courage to tell you the truth, but now I see how fleeting time is, even for us, and I would squander it no more. So I needed to tell you, Amarth."_

_ "But you haven't told me anything," said, Amarth dumbly, his eyes wide._

_ "Haven't I?" chuckled Dinelloth. His face drew nearer, but he watched Amarth closely for any sign that he was not welcome. "I think you know, my dear."_

_ Amarth knew what was happening, but he still jolted when their lips first met. It was a tentative kiss, timid even, but he still felt a shock go right through him. It was like being thrown in a tub of cold water and falling in a pit of fire at the same time. And then it was over before it had started. Their lips had hardly even brushed, when Dinelloth pulled away to study his friend's face. Amarth's eyes were still wide. He had never shut them._

Frodo stopped reading suddenly. Was this the right book? Perhaps he had mistaken the title, though he didn't know how that could be, or perhaps the author of the book, whomever that was, was playing a joke on the reader. Frodo had certainly never heard of such things as two lads kissing each other. Or perhaps it was simply an Elf thing, something that close friends did. It made a bit of sense, when he thought about it. They had certainly been through quite a bit together. Didn't it make sense that Dinelloth would want to show Amarth how thankful he was, and relieved to say the least. Frodo nodded to himself, thinking, 'Silly. Well, now that I've gotten that cleared up…' And from there he read on.

_ …Their lips had hardly even brushed, when Dinelloth pulled away to study his friend's face. Amarth's eyes were still wide. He had never shut them._

_On Dinelloth's face there was a flicker of doubt. "I'm sorry," he breathed. His voice was as broken as his heart. To hide his welling tears he started to turn away. Amarth suddenly snapped back to himself, catching Dinelloth's face firmly between his hands._

"_Dinelloth," was all that he could breathe out before flinging himself into a second kiss, crushing their lips together. Dinelloth gasped in surprise. _

_Amarth kept his mouth steady, afraid to scare Dinelloth away, but-oh!-he wanted to show him how much he meant to him, how much he needed him. There were things that words just couldn't say._

_He had felt Dinelloth's mouth open in the gasp and though he tried to control himself, he felt his own mouth open as well on its own accord. With abandon, he through caution to the wind and kissed Dinelloth as he pleased: deeply, very deeply. When their tongues touched for the first time, they both whimpered in unison. And suddenly the sensations were building far quicker than either could have anticipated. The kissing grew faster. Their tongues grew bolder. Their hands became adventurous, stroking here and there along their each other's waists or stomachs, or up to their necks. _

_With a tug, Dinelloth pulled Amarth on top of him, lying back in the soft bed to take his welcome weight. They began to writhe together, faster and faster, for they did not know what else they could do…_

Abruptly, Frodo tore his eyes from the page and slammed the book shut. Not only was he very, very confused by now, but another little problem was making itself known. His stomach was stabbed through with an unnamed desire and his parts were flushed with heat, and if he didn't stop now, he was going to have the fullest, hardest, most confusing erection of his life.

He breathed slowly, trying to calm down, but it was no good. His flesh rose in defiance. With an aggravated sigh, drew the towel away to inspect his body's mischief. His cock was colored deeply in such a high state of arousal that Frodo grew a bit nervous upon seeing it. If he had received this kind of erection from seeing a lass's breasts or by being brushed there, everything would be fine and dandy (aside from having a raging erection), but there was no topless lass here and he hadn't so much as touched himself. He was, in truth, disturbed and he would doubtlessly worry himself about it later, but right at that moment he needed-_needed_-to take care of it.

He reached down and took himself in hand, not sure yet what to fantasize about. Perhaps a lass's breasts would help him along. Yes, perhaps _she_ was the one taking him in hand. Perhaps she was stroking him just so. He tried to keep focused on that thought, but his mind kept straying back to the elvish book. To Amarth and Dinelloth. Together.

Suddenly, there was another stab of arousal that seemed to go right through to his bones it was so powerful, and painful too. He couldn't stop a small whimper from escaping his throat. It was all too much. He sped up his hand, so that it slapped loudly, but he was too far gone to care if anyone heard. He just needed to finish it, and finish it quick.

He let his mind flood with images of Amarth and Dinelloth, of what he had read and of his own imagination. _They were kissing each other, rubbing each other. Their hands strayed downwards on each other. They were stroking each other right there._ And then it was all too much for Frodo.

A small, sharp cry was torn from his lips and he plummeted back into the bed, twisting and writhing about. His cock pulsed once in his hand. Twice. Then seed gushed across his white belly, over and over again, more times than he ever remembered experiencing before. He rode it out to the end.

At length, he slid his eyes open to stare languidly at the ceiling, feeling unbelievably heavy. He gathered his wits and sat up to inspect the damage. Luckily, he had only spilled on his own body and not on the bed. With haste, he cleaned himself up.

When he felt ready to face the world, he stowed the book away once again, clasped the towel about him, but higher and more conservatively on his hips, and made his trip to his bedroom as quickly as he could, where he dressed in clean clothes. He felt a bit better then, once he was covered, but his mind raced. When he left his room he walked as if everything was well and good and perfectly normal, but he could not erase from his mind how far that was from the truth.

-0-

"Mr. Frodo," called Sam, peeping his head above the same rosebush that he had cut his arm on.

Frodo made his way over to where his gardener stood. "Sam, are you fixing that bush?"

"Hey? Oh, yes, I am. Or I'm tryin' to at least. I'm sorry to say that I'm not gettin' too far with the poor thing. I figured I could rearrange the branches by twisting them about each other and maybe hide the bald spot, but they just keep springin' apart soon as they're together. It's right frustrating to tell ye the truth and the thorns don't make it any easier to work with."

"At least you got out. How is your arm doing?"

"It's nearly good as new," Sam said, holding his arm aloft to inspect the angry looking wounds (that didn't look anywhere near 'good as new'). "I thank'ee for that."

"For what?"

"Fer getting' me out, a'course, and lettin' me wash up."

"No trouble at all, Sam," said Frodo with a pleasant smile. "So did you want something?"

"Oh yes-listen to me go on!-I was wondering, well, if yer cousins would be alright with me taking time with ye fer awhile tomorrow. I mean, I wouldn't want ye to feel ye had to leave them."

"Leave them for what?" asked Frodo.

"Oh, fer the story. Amarth an' Dinelloth. Ye don't remember?" He asked, crestfallen. "We were to read it at the week's end, beggin' yer pardon, sir. But ye've been busy. I won't make a nuisance of meself."

Oh, Frodo remembered alright, though he had tried all week to wash his memory of it. "Oh, yes," he heard himself say. "Sorry, I'm just a bit forgetful. Don't worry, Sam. I can't wait to read it!"

Oh why, oh why did he say that?

Alright, he had to come up with some sort of excuse now, before it was too late. But the smile that spread across Sam's face was warm and completely unafraid. Trusting. And suddenly there was no excuse that Frodo could bring himself to make.

"Well, I won't keep you longer," Frodo said. Sam waved him off and then, once again, ducked into his work. Frodo could hear him humming all the way from the smial's back door. He seemed so, so excited.

_This story is getting fun to write;D I would love to know what you guys think about it so far and I've only gotten one review so far. So please please please __**Review**__. And there might be a chocolate chip cookie in it for you, no promises!_

_(:::) -this is said cookie_


	5. Blackleaf Ink

_I __do not__ own lotr or any of the characters that I am portraying poorly. The content of this fanfiction is questionable and should not be viewed by minors. . .or anybody for that matter._

_Enjoy._

_Note: sorry this one took so long. I caught pneumonia:P I guess one of the symptoms is that it hampers the creative process. Well, anyhoo, here you go. I hope it was worth the wait. _

_Note to reviewers (who are the beautifulest, most wonderful hobbit-fanciers outside of middle earth)-_

_ Hetaliaisawepic: hfhffhjrkeyrybj:') Your comment was wonderful and made me want to hug myself! No, internet's not broken, because if it was I would be going insane. Az fer gramer and speling, spelchek iz vary hulpfull. I just love that you are enjoying it. Hope this chappy floats your boat!_

**Chapter Five: Blackleaf Ink**

"Is everything alright with you?" asked Merry, offering a hand out to Frodo, who was currently sitting on his bum in a daze. Aron and Darec, meanwhile, were whooping and hollering with laughter.

Frodo, apparently, hadn't been paying attention, because that tree branch had come out of nowhere. He rubbed his face where the bark had snapped against it and winced. "I guess I wasn't watching where I was going," he muttered, taking Merry's hand and rising to his feet.

"Apparently not," snickered one of the brothers, though Frodo couldn't tell which one.

Frodo forced a grin, though it stretched his face in an unpleasant way. Aron and Darec could poke their fun while he stood hurting, but in the end, Frodo knew they didn't mean anything by it. They were just being _Ninnyhammers_.

Oh, Samwise Gamgee was rubbing off on him.

The day was lovely and green, heavy and humming. It was as if summer had been revitalized following the rain storm, but every hobbit knew it could not stay so warm for long. In fact, it was probably one of the last pleasant days of the year. Most hobbits would be out enjoying the weather and living it up for all it was worth, but Frodo didn't enjoy the weather much, for he had but one thing on his mind.

He and his cousins were walking back to Bag End right then, and once he got back, the work day would be nearly over. And Sam would be expecting to read the Elvish book. No, he would be expecting _Frodo_ to read it to him.

"Is something the matter?" tried Merry again, recalling Frodo to the present.

"No, nothing. Why would you think that?"

Merry shrugged.

"Merry's right," said Aron. There was a hint of seriousness in him that Frodo had never seen too much of. "There's something wrong."

"No, there's not," Frodo insisted, but it was in vain.

"I've known you for a long time, cousin. And I know that every time you lie, you get a little pink in the face."

Now Frodo wasn't liking this rare side of Aron so much anymore. "It's nothing really. I mean, my face is _pink_ because I just ran into a tree."

"Balderdash," he blurted. "So what's got you in a tizzy? Out with it!"

Merry and Darec were watching Aron in awe, with looks upon their faces not too different than when the stuck pig (apple and all) was laid before them two yuletides ago.

"Nothing is the mat-I am _not_ in a tizzy."

"How long have you known us?"

"Far too long," was Frodo's attempt at humor. It didn't land.

"So would you say that you trust us?"

"Yes, I trust you. Of course I trust you. All of you."

"Then what's the problem?"

Frodo opened and closed his mouth."It's not a matter of trust," he answered at length. "It's just a delicate subject, that is all."

"And we have delicate constitutions?"

"Most defiantly not," was a second stab at humor. It didn't fly.

"Then it's you that has the delicate constitution?"

"_No_." How could Frodo possibly make them understand?

"Then I don't see why you can't just tell us and get it off your mind. Just tell us, _please_."

Frodo could have gone on and on, for he knew that there was no way-_no way_-that they could make him tell them, but that one word stopped him up short. Aron didn't say 'please' that often. Maybe during a social gathering midst the throes of stiff etiquette, but Aron was not the sort to care for manners if the situation didn't call for them. He was a gentlehobbit, but was not too polite when it came down to it.

"Alright," Frodo finally breathed, half unbelieving that he was actually going to tell them. With a resignation, he realized that all the stubbornness in the world wouldn't help him a bit. He needed to talk to someone before he exploded. "But, like I said, it is _delicate_."

"Yes, yes-here, let's keeping walking-you can tell us as we go."

The four of them moved together as if connected by one mind. Down the trail they went, clustered closely to Frodo, ready to hear every delicate word that spilled from his tight lips.

"It's been bothering me a little-well, more like _confusing_. Do you remember when I slipped in the mud a few days ago and had to run home?"

They all muttered their acknowledgements.

"Well…on the way back I came upon a strange scene," Frodo lied. "I found a couple in the grass, where they thought they were alone, moving about, rolling around. You know."

"You do know about the birds and the bees, don't you?" asked Darec, though it earned him no laughs. Merry hushed him much to his annoyance.

"Yes, I'm quite aware of those things," answered Frodo. He could feel his face grow even hotter as he prepared to go on. When he spoke next, his words were blunt. "It was two lads."

Aron halted for a moment before remembering to keep up. "Wait a second," he started slowly. "You caught two lads…fornicating?"

"Well, I didn't get too close, but I'm sure it was two lads."

"Aron, hold on," Merry cut in. "Is that a _thing_."

"You're absolutely sure?"

"What does that mean?" whined Merry.

Frodo nodded his head. "I heard their voices."

"Did you recognize them?"

"No," he answered quickly. Aron frowned at him and was quiet for a time, and when he did speak his urgency was gone and replaced by a certain carefulness.

"I have heard of such things," he said. "But it is rarely spoken of."

"Why?" asked Merry, who was making sure now that he kept up.

"I'll tell you, but you must all promise that you won't talk about it anywhere else. Understand. Under no circumstances."

Darec and Merry made their promises hastily. Frodo did too, but there was an odd prickle of uncertainty under his skin; a premonition, one might say. "So," began Frodo warily. "Why is it so bad?"

Aron scratched his head awkwardly. "Well, two lads fornicating is considered to be very…well, very dirty. A sordid, depraved thing. It's not the sort of thing that is brought up _ever_, like I said before."

"Oh, sorry, I guess," muttered Frodo.

"No, I don't mean to say it like that. It is best that you came to us instead of asking one of the adults. They might think that you are, you know, like that."

"They would think that I…fornicate with other lads just because I ask?"

"They would think that you have it on your mind. And that's only a thought away from having a mind to actually do it."

"No it's not. That doesn't make any sense."

"I don't know, Frodo. I only heard some adults mention it once. Supposedly, there was an _incident_ that happened a few years back, where a kind of sickness swept through and some of the lads fell sick to it. It wasn't like a cold or a flu or anything like that, but apparently it demented the minds of some of the lads and made them…prefer the company of other lads."

"It was an illness?!"

"Yes, but it ran its course years ago. The lads in question were cured, married, and they moved on with their lives. No one mentions it anymore. No one wants to humiliate them, when they themselves were victim to it. Understand?"

"Yes, of course," Frodo said, waving his hands in assurance. Then, a little timid, he added, "So the hobbits in question were here? In the Shire? Might it be people that I know?"

"It might. I don't know who, though. The way they were talking about it-the incident I mean-it sounded like only a handful were afflicted. But I could be wrong. I _was_ eavesdropping after all."

"As I suspected," chuckled Frodo, but he was suddenly serious again. "So do you think it's possible for an illness like that to return?"

"If what you say it true, that there were two lads fornicating in the woods-" Frodo felt a twinge of guilt at that. "-then the disease might indeed have returned, but under no circumstances, Frodo, should you speak to anyone else of this. The Hobbiton rumor mill is quite the industry, which you know as well as I, and you don't want to be associated with the _afflicted_ when the allegations start, if they do at all."

Frodo nodded his head doggedly. The eyes, fixed in his Tookish head like sapphires, glinted with a very Baggins determination, for he would never-_never_-speak of this subject to any other hobbits than the three that walked beside him right then. Darec and Merry nodded as well, binding them four in secret.

Darec was the one to speak next. "Alight, alright. So it's a big secret, but what _I_ don't get is how lads…you know…I mean where would _it_ even go?"

A line from the Elvish Book flashed in Frodo's mind. _They began to writhe together, faster and faster, for they did not know what else they could do. _It wasn't a question Frodo would have thought of himself, or would have dared to ask if his mind had ventured there, but now that it had been broached Frodo found himself to be genuinely curious. What _could_ two lads do together, anyways? Writhe? It didn't seem like it would be very satisfying at all.

"I don't know. I don't think it goes anywhere. There isn't really a way for two lads to fornicate properly. Not any way I can think of."

"It's so strange," said Merry. "I mean, it's something I would have never thought of."

"I'm glad _I_ never thought about it," said Darec. "It's a bit repulsive if you ask me."

Aron chuckled. "It _does_ make you wince a bit, doesn't it?"

"Aron, what if _I_ get the disease?"

"Why are you asking _me_, Merry?"

"Well, you seem to know a bit about it. So what if the disease is actually back? Diseases spread, you know. What if that were to happen to _me_?"

"Then I'd stay as far away from you as I can! Oh, Merry, don't look at me like that. I'm kidding. Really, don't be so serious. There's no way you would catch it. Diseases usually spread through the _low class_ first and even if _that_ happened then at least you would have some sort of warning that it was going around-here, we're almost back. We need to stop talking about this."

Frodo glanced up. Sure enough, down the road and up the hill was Bag End, or what little they could see of it through the large garden. They were approaching it from the Back-way.

The road ran just under the hill and then wound up on the other side. It was a short journey, but Frodo found it unbearably long, and as they passed the garden Frodo's secret fear came true. There was Sam, his curly hair glowing in the sun. He was turned away, still fiddling with the damn Rosebush, but at the sound of their approach he glanced over his shoulder and showered Frodo with a small, warm smile.

"Frodo?" asked Merry, for Frodo had frozen in place. Oh dear. That's right, he remembered. He had to think fast.

"I'll be right in with you," he answered distantly. Then, remembering himself, he flashed a funny smile at his cousins so that they wouldn't detect any strange behavior. "It appears my gardener has already finished for today. I might as well let him off early before he starts to _replant_ the flowers or something."

Aron waved his hand. "Alright. We'll be in the parlor." Then they turned the bend in the road and followed it to the other side of the hill, leaving Frodo alone.

He nearly trampled a bed of turnips entering the garden, which made Sam spin around in surprise.

"Oh, Sir, don't move! There's a little one right by yer foot!" His voice was gentle, but he shrunk instantly, the Gaffer's lectures taking control once again. He sputtered out, "Beggin' yer pardon, and all."

Frodo found himself teetering on only one foot, the other suspended over a convoluted mesh of springy plants.

"It's alright, Sam. it's alright," he assured with a wave of his hands. "Where can I step?"

Sam glanced around, perhaps checking to see if his Gaffer had witnessed his outburst. To Sam's relief, he wasn't in sight.

"Erm…" Sam hummed. "Can ye jump for it?"

Frodo eyed the distance. Then, knee bending, he sprung forward-and _just_ made it. "There!" he proclaimed proudly.

Sam couldn't seem to help himself; he started to laugh, which sounded like-well, if _sunlight_ could make a sound, it would sound something like that. It made Frodo feel all light and airy inside.

"I see that you are all finished, Sam, apart from the rosebush."

"Yes, sir."

Frodo could hardly say what came next, but he steeled himself. "I know we had plans, but I _really_ need you to make a trip to the market for me."

"Alright, Sir. What is it that ye need?"

Frodo looked Sam over and was relieved that he didn't see any signs of disappointment on his face. Of course, Sam probably thought that he would just be doing a quick errand and that they would get to the Elvish Book soon enough.

"I actually only need one thing: ink."

"Quill ink?"

"Yes, but it's a special kind of ink. It's called Blackleaf."

"Blackleaf Ink. Alright, I won't forget."

Frodo explored the contents of his pockets and found the heavy coin purse. He had taken it with him to buy his cousins a round at the _Ivy Bush_, but they had decided against it. It was a good amount of money. More than he usually gave Sam when he went to market for the Bagginses. It was certainly more than what any ink was worth.

He took Sam's hand, ignoring the strange shock that seemed to go straight to his heart, and placed the coin purse there. Sam felt the weight of it and his eyes widened.

"My!" he exclaimed. "This Blackleaf must be the qualitiest ink in the Shire!"

"Yes, it's very rare, but I'm sure that it's in the market somewhere."

"I'm on the job, Mr. Frodo. And I'll hurry back too, so that we can get to _Amarth and Dinelloth_."

"Alright, it sounds like a plan," said Frodo, making sure that he smiled. The sudden guilt he felt hit him like a hammer to the gut.

There was no such thing as Blackleaf Ink.

-0-

Sam was having no luck at all finding this Blackleaf Ink. The usually place to go would be to Goodchild's Parchment and Supplies. It was a small, humble place of business and the owner, Ruff Goodchild, and his family lived in the backrooms.

Supposedly, he was somehow related to Ruff. His mother had been Ruff's second cousin or something like that. Sam didn't know for sure, but the relation didn't matter. Ruff was like having one of those funny uncles. He was a kind, old hobbit, scruffy and point-nosed, and he reminded Sam of his own Gaffer a bit, though his Gaffer was much grumpier and Ruff was always quicker to grin. Sam didn't just come to him when the Bagginses were low on supplies. He loved stopping in to chat when he found the time.

But right then he didn't have any time at all.

"Are ye sure ye don't have _anything_ by the name?" asked Sam.

"Sorry, lad. As far as I know there's no such thing as Blackleaf Ink. I've never heard of it, leastways. Are you sure that's what it's called?"

"Yes. Mr. Frodo asked for it specifically."

"I'm afraid I don't carry it," he said sincerely. "You said it was rare, didn't you?"

"Aye, it is."

"Then, perhaps, Chubbs' carries it."

If anyone carried Blackleaf Ink it would be Chubbs', but Sam really would have liked to avoid that shop. Every hobbit knew that Chubbs' wasn't just any old shop. They sold old, expensive books there, the best paper, and all sorts of inks. As it was, Sam had never set foot in the place. Only the very wealthy could afford to shop there. The Bagginses could certainly afford it, but Mr. Bilbo had always made it known that his opinion on Chubbs' was not a positive one. Sam had heard words like "frivolous" and "elitist" uttered by him, and though Sam wasn't quite sure what he meant by that (having never seen the inside of the place), he was sure it had something to do with Bilbo's adamant support of the working class. The Bagginses always gave their business to the Goodchild's.

"I reckon they would," said Sam. "But getting in would be the problem." He looked himself over. His clothes were as clean as ever, but that didn't count for much when standing next to a gentlehobbit. His trousers were washed of all the grass stains, but the material was crude and unrefined. Well, that couldn't be helped.

"They'll let you in as long as you got that much money on you."

"Yer right, I reckon. Well, thanks anyways," bid Sam as he walked out the door. "Say hullo to Posy fer me."

"That I'll do, lad. Have a good evening."

The door shut behind him and he entered the market area, winding his way through the many stalls (which were mostly produce). Many hobbits were beginning to lock up for the evening and Sam became aware that he was running out of time.

He had to hurry up. If they didn't get to reading the book tonight, then when? He just wouldn't feel right coming in tomorrow, his day off, because it was Frodo's own day off too. He would be wanting to spend it with his cousins. So when would they get the chance? Next weekend? Sam didn't trust this nice weather to hold up, which was quite a shame. It was the perfect kind of day to sit under a tree with your best friend and read a good book.

Sam stopped in his tracks. _Best Friend?_ Oh, if only he had listened to his Gaffer when he was young, then he wouldn't be getting fanciful ideas above his station. Mr. Frodo was just _generous_ to the Gamgees, simply wonderfully generous just like Bilbo (and some more), and always had been, but that just meant that Sam had to watch himself closely, root out these bold thoughts before they grew like weeds. Why just today he had yelled at Mr. Frodo for stepping in the turnip bed. Oh, Lady! It was _his_ garden. He could step wherever he pleased.

But it was true. And Sam couldn't deny it.

Somewhere along the line Frodo had become something very special to Sam. Maybe it was the way he could listen to Sam yammer on when the Gaffer would have told him to "keep yer mind on yer work. It's not good for much else." Frodo seemed to think the opposite. He had sought to it that Sam learned his letters, though Sam wasn't sure how much help that was. It doesn't matter how lush and healthy a flower is; if you plant it in poor soil, it won't flourish. There were a few times, when Sam was still just a little lad, that he had wished on the stars out his window that he could be smart. Not as smart as Mr. Frodo-no-but smart enough to make him proud. Maybe then Mr. Frodo would believe that that perfectly good flower he had planted hadn't just shriveled up.

Perhaps it would always be a mystery why his master put up with him so well, but it wasn't a mystery why Sam loved his master so much. He was smart, yes, and kind and so, so interesting (what with all the talk of Elves and adventures), but most of all Mr. Frodo had always been there for Sam. He had always known what to say. Especially the day Sam's mother died.

'Stop thinkin' about that, ye Ninnyhammer' Sam thought to himself. 'Do ye want t' start cryin' right outside Chubbs'?'

Sam halted and shoved those thoughts away, willing himself to be calm as he appraised the shop before him, though the word 'shop' seemed a bit too rustic to describe this place. He had seen it from a distance plenty of times, but never this close. Never close enough like he was making to walk on in. It was three-quarters the size of Bag End!

"What are ye doin', Sam?" asked a girlish voice.

Sam spun around. It was Rosie Cotton. She had her knees together, arms tucked behind her back, and she was leaning forward, tilting her head. Her dappled cheeks were the color of fresh, August apples and her ginger hair was wrapped back with humble ribbons.

"Nothing!" he blurted. "I mean, I'm running an errand fer Mr. Frodo."

"What _kind _of errand?"

"An important one." Well, if that didn't make him sound like a fifteen year old…why did lasses always make it so easy to act immature? He checked his tone. "I'm looking fer a special kind of Ink. Ruff doesn't carry it so I thought I would-I would try here."

Rosie saw him gulp. "Have ye ever been in there?"

Sam shook his head.

"Well, tell me what it's like when ye get out."

"I think I might be a while," said Sam honestly, glancing back at it.

"Alright," she sighed, seeming a bit disappointed. Then a friendly smile came across her face. "I suppose I'll just have to see ye later then."

"I'll see ye later," Sam said politely as he waved her off. When she was gone he turned back to the shop.

'Alright, Samwise Gamgee, ye coward. Are ye going in or aren't ye.' He scratched his neck nervously, screwed up his brown face, and walked up to the door. 'Oh, yes, ye are.'

Then he pushed the door open and was greeting by a warm light and a sight that could have knocked him off his feet if he hadn't had a grip on the handle. Shelves upon shelves, upon shelves were lined with books in every color that had ever existed. They were stacked to the high ceiling, where from hung a brilliant chandelier that twinkled with more candles than Sam had fingers and toes to count them on. And all this down a great, round corridor with alcove-like rooms for other things, such papers and maps, clocks and other doodads that the wealthy seemed to have, and inks.

The door shutting behind him echoed throughout the place and, hesitantly, he stepped further in. "Erm. Hullo?"

The voice that answered was thick with the gentry's accent. "Hello. The desk is in the first alcove." It reminded him a bit of Mr. Frodo, though Mr. Frodo's voice always sounded so much kinder.

"The desk?" questioned Sam dumbly.

"The front desk," said the voice impatiently. "Can I help you find anything?"

Sam turned into the first alcove where the voice had indicated, but didn't see anything except some more books. "Hrmph!" Came the voice again. Sam spun around to find the front desk in the alcove right across the corridor. He removed his hat and wrung it between his hands as he made his way over to the wealthy looking hobbit.

He appraised Sam up and down. "I'm afraid we're far out of your price range. Thank you for stopping by." Then he began to turn away.

"I'm here on my master's business," Sam blurted. "I'm looking for a special kind of ink. It's called _Blackleaf Ink_."

"Do you think I know every Ink by name?"

"Erm…"

"The inks are down in the farthest alcove. Be careful not to knock anything over." Then he turned around and went back to what he had been doing before. Sam went down to the farthest alcove as fast as he could while still making sure that he was careful. That would be the worst of worst, to get kicked out before he found what he was looking for.

The room was stacked with all sorts of inks of varying colors, and as Sam saw all of them his heart fell. He wasn't going to being getting back to Bag End any time soon. Well, there was nothing for it but to do his best. He started to browse.

-0-

Frodo sat quietly on his bed in his own room, head bent, knees together, and a very troublesome book clutched in both hands. His dark, wayward curls tumbled over his face, shutting him away from the world.

He stared down at the book angrily. Everything was wrong. How could he possibly read this to young Sam? How could he not?

He rose to his feet and crossed the room to where the fireplace sat against the wall. He squared his shoulders and stared down at the flames. It was obvious to Frodo now why Bilbo had kept the book hidden away, safe from any nosy, ungrateful hobbits like himself. The book was dirty and filled with dangerous ideas. Why, it had even tricked Frodo into feeling arousal at the thought of two lads together. He thanked Valar that his cousins had told him the truth of it before it had been too late. Before he caught that disease.

And now it was just a matter of getting rid of the thing before he lost his nerve. He shifted the fireplace's artisan gate to the side and held the book over the flames, waiting for it to catch. He had no choice, but to burn it. He could hardly return it to Bilbo's collection now and he couldn't stash it away, because then it would always be in the back of his mind. He would always be afraid of getting found out. And he most certainly couldn't keep it for himself. He didn't understand what had happened the other day when he had developed a certain…erm…_reaction_ to the sensitive material, nor did he want to understand it. It had been a close one, a mistake that could have ruined his life.

If he had caught the disease, what then? The Baggins name would be dragged through the mud and even after Frodo was cured folks would still whisper about him, probably for the rest of his life. As if they didn't whisper enough already.

And what if he had read that to Sam? Frodo didn't like to think about that.

When the book's corner caught fire Frodo panicked, withdrew it quick as a flash, and blew the little flame out. He watched the little streams of smoke dance out of the black, ruined corner and disperse into the air like a whispered secret. Oh, he was a coward.

He sunk onto the floor and stared at the fire, knowing that it was simply no use. For all the reasons to destroy it there was still one thing holding him back that weighed all those other reasons out: he had hoped against hope to find the fourth _Amarth and Dinelloth _book for years. He had always loved it and the years of reading the incomplete story to little Sam over and over again had made the whole deal one of his warmest memories. And warm memories were few and far between, especially in first couple years of his orphanhood.

With resignation, rested his head on his knees.

There a knock at the door. Frodo jumped to his feet, instinctively holding the book behind his back, which was very fortunate, for before he could say anything at all, the door opened without an invitation and admitted Bilbo into the room.

"Oh, I wasn't sure you were in here, Frodo my lad," he said. "I didn't mean to barge in on you."

"Uncle! What do you want?" asked Frodo, sounded far ruder than he intended.

Bilbo looked him over closely. "Are you alright?"

"Yes, of course I am. I had just finished…changing and you startled me."

"Changing into what?"

"What?"

"What clothing were you changing into? You're wearing the same thing you've worn all day."

Frodo glanced down at the blue weskit that clamped the pale shirt down around his slender body. The shirt tails had fallen out of his breeks. "I meant I was just about to start undressing. Was there something that you wanted?"

"Oh, yes. I was going to let you know that your appointment with Doctor Brown is tomorrow right after lunch."

"Oh, alright. Thank you, Uncle."

"How is your breathing?"

Frodo suppressed a groan of frustration. The Elvish book was beginning to feel heavy. "It's been good. Normal. Perfectly normal. No trouble at all."

"You should still see Doctor Brown. I know it might seem unnecessary, Frodo, but it would help to quiet an old hobbit's fears if you would let Doctor Brown have a quick look at you."

"Of course I'll go, Bilbo."

Bilbo let out a sigh and then gave a small, friendly smile, though his eyes became bleary. "You do know that I worry about you sometimes."

"I don't mean to worry you," said Frodo quickly.

"And you're a good lad. I know I don't say that very much. Perhaps I should."

Frodo gave a nervous laugh. "I'm not dying, Uncle."

"I mean it though. And I won't pretend that I don't know why you have these _episodes_. I understand perfectly well where they come from. And I don't mean to bring up painful memories for you. That's the last thing I want, of course. I'm not sure what I'm trying to say."

Frodo was frozen, eyes wide. It was uncanny how much he resembled a deer caught in an open field by a hunter, in that one moment when it realizes its mistake. He could do nothing as Bilbo continued.

"Frodo, you know I've never tried to be your father. I know I could never replace him for you, but I've always held you dear. You do know that don't you?"

'Kill me now,' thought Frodo. 'Oh Lady, kill me now.'

Bilbo didn't wait for Frodo to answer. As it was, Frodo didn't look like he even _could_ have answered. "I don't think I've ever really talked about it with you, Frodo. I felt that maybe it wasn't my place to, but maybe I should have. Maybe I should have a long time ago when the episodes first started. I don't want you to feel like you have to keep it to yourself or that you would be bothering me by asking for my help."

Frodo finally found his voice though it was uncertain and shaky. "I never felt like it was that way, Uncle. I've always spoken to you openly."

Bilbo studied him for a long uncomfortable moment with his small, scholar's eyes. "Just remember what I've said here in case you need to talk. I'm always listening."

Frodo nodded. "I know."

"I know you know. I-I just needed to say that." An awkward, rather sheepish smile stretched across Bilbo's face, making him look truly repentant. "Now where have you been? Your cousins are wondering where you've gotten off to."

"Now they're just being impatient."

"I'll tell them you'll be right with them," said Bilbo kindly, turning for the door, but something seemed to stop him. Frodo watched in dawning horror as his cousin's eyes fixed upon him in an unabashedly Baggins way. He knew that look. It was the look Bilbo had when he noticed an incorrect translation in elvish poetry, or when he realized they were low on a certain food upon inspecting their stores in the cellar. When he spoke, his words were innocently curious. "Frodo, what do you have behind your back?"

_Alright *waves hands* sorry about the cliffhanger. The chapter was getting too long and I wanted to update, so I decided to cut it in half. Hope you'll stick around for the next chappy!_


	6. Inkless

_I __do not__ own lotr or any of the characters that I am portraying poorly. The content of this fanfiction is questionable and should not be viewed by minors. . .or anybody for that matter._

_Enjoy._

Note: Hurray! Internet's back up!

_To Reviewers (most of you started reading after I published chapter 4, you sex addicts):_

_ Hetaliaisawepic-Well, I too your advice and I did hug myself. It felt pretty damn good too! What you said about Bilbo being Mr. Fatherly-well, I've noticed that in fanfiction, Bilbo is always the perfect 'father', but I wanted to change that up a bit. 'man, he's not as innocent as he seems, is he?' Have you been reading my story notes? Well, I won't say any more than that. Hetalia, you are a grade-A reviewer. Thank you for spending time on such a long, wonderful review. You are the FABULOUS one. Hope you like this chappy!_

_ Panicyregalia-Yes it's rated M for a reason (cue maniacal laughter) and don't you worry none. That's not the last scene of its kind;D Also, I'm glad you like the story so much (and my username). This story is turning out to be longer than I planned, so you're in luck._

_ Slave to my Pen-Thanks for reading, Slave. It's hard sometimes to stay true to the characters' voices, but it wouldn't be as fun if it wasn't a believable Frodo and Sam that I was playing with-did I say playing with? I meant, um, writing about. _

_ Saphiraz-thanks for r&r. I hope this chappy adds a bit of a new dimension to the plot. I won't say any more!_

_ GreenKazoo-Yeah, you were wondering about the rating too:P I'm glad chapter 4 cleared things up. This story is going to be a bit different from Tolkien's;D(may he rest in peace and not haunt me for what I'm going to do with his timeless characters). I just can't say how much I love that you love the story. Anyhoo, it seems you picked up on the Bilbo thing. What was he doing with that book, indeed?_

_ Now, without further ado…_

**Chapter Six: Inkless**

"Frodo, what do you have behind your back?"

The question was met with silence. Frodo was frozen; his body had gone rigid, his mind had all but stopped working. Bilbo tilted his head in a curious sort of way. If he had only asked offhandedly, without any sort of suspicion-well, he was certainly suspicious now. He edged closer. "Frodo?"

With a jolt, Frodo came back to himself and retorted, "What do _you_ have behind _your _back?"

"Excuse me?"

Frodo winced inwardly, but pressed on. "I've told you everything that I _have behind my back_, what with my episodes and all. You know everything about me, but I can tell that you're hiding something behind _your_ back."

"I-," Bilbo clamped his mouth shut, turning his head to check behind him, perhaps to make sure that there was no one in earshot. In a flash, Frodo saw his chance and he seized it.

Without looking behind him he tossed the book out of the open window, holding his breath and praying at it did not strike the wall or fall too short. There was nothing but a quiet _whoooosh_ as it spun out through its mark. Bilbo glanced back, seeming to sense the movement out of the corner of his eye, but the book was gone, out into the bushes somewhere. Frodo repressed a shiver of excitement that wanted to go right through him.

"Nevermind, Uncle," said Frodo good-naturedly, making sure to stretch his arms above his head in a tired sort of way. "I didn't mean to drill you at all. And as to what I have behind my back, well, I'm just glad that I have someone that I can talk to about it."

Bilbo blinked at him and opened his mouth to say something, but Frodo beat him to it. "I-um-I need to change," he said, indicating towards the wardrobe. "Are you alright, Uncle?"

"What did you mean, what do I have behind my back? I don't-nevermind. I think I'm going to go put some tea on. Would you like some?"

"No thank you," Frodo answered quickly, and then added, "I won't be able to fall asleep tonight if I do."

Bilbo nodded absently and shut the door. The bolt clicked into place and Frodo let out a gush of breath. 'Of all the…' He sidled over to the open window and peeked out.

His bedroom was set towards the back of the smial so that much of the garden was visible. Though he couldn't see everything, there being all sorts of plants to obscure his view, he could still see all the tops of most of the greenery and flowers that grew: The winding blossoming vines that crept across a short stretch of lawn, the freckles of flowers farther back, and the high hedges that walled it all in. He had woken to this lovely view every morning.

But he was not appreciating the lovely view right at that moment-no-he was tilting his head, and craning his neck, and leaning dangerously far out the window, looking for the bright crimson of the book's cover in the rosebush right beneath his window. It was little help though, he realized in dismay, for there were still plenty of roses on the bush (late as the season might be) and they were all just as crimson as the book.

That was when something out of place caught his eye. Frodo leaned down for a better look, the book forgotten for a moment. Grimacing at the thorns, he wended his arm down into the bush, being careful not to get caught like Sam had. He was just able to reach the thing with the tips of his fingers, but it still took a long minute to extract in from the thorn it was so well caught on before he could pull it up to inspect it.

It was a pocket-with no shirt attached; just a pocket, clean torn off. Frodo rubbed it between his fingers, relishing the feel of the material. It was silk, so fine that if it was laid flat, it could be mistaken as a precious metal, and it shone like it too. This kind of cloth was about as rare and expensive as it got. Bilbo, with all the Baggins wealth, only owned several shirts of its make.

"It can't be Sam's or Hamfast's," thought Frodo out loud.

"Fro-do!" came Merry's voice, followed by much door banging. "Frodo, hurry it up! How long does it take to get dressed?"

"Be right out!" Frodo answered hastily, stowing the pocket away in his trunk. There was simply no time for it. And as for the book…it would have to wait. He had no time to go looking for it now. It would be safe enough where ever it had landed, safer than in the smial, at least. After all, no one in their right mind would putter around in the rosebush. It was too thick (placed under his window to discourage burglars, Bilbo had once told him); because there were just too many folks who believed that there was treasure and _jools_ hidden away in Bag End, which was completely ridiculous-

"Frodo!"

"One minute! One minute!"

He shucked off his breeks and stumbled into a warmer pair. A new shirt followed and bracers to pin the cloth to his shoulders. He checked himself quickly, making sure he hadn't forgotten to button his breeks, and made for the door only to come face to face with three very exasperated cousins.

"Alright, I'm here now."

-0-

Sam wasn't quite sure how long he had been there, going through all the ink bottles one by one, but with one glance out of the little round window he realized just how much time he had taken. It was nearly dark outside, save a glowing haze on the western horizon. The sun had dipped below some time ago.

His heart fell at the sight. There would be no meeting up with Mr. Frodo, no elvish book reading, and Sam had been so looking forward to it. It wasn't just the book that excited him (though Amarth and Dinelloth sure had quite a story going), but even more it was the time spent with his master. Frodo was so smart and he read Elvish so flawlessly, almost as if he were really an elf.

Sam swallowed his disappointment and focused even more at the task at hand. He had made a mess of the evening so far. At least he would be able to return with the ink to show for all his dallying, so long as he found it before Chubbs' closed for the night.

He heard the door open, admitting the _padda padda_ of hobbit feet and the quiet swish of a skirt upon the ground.

"Welcome, Mrs. Lobelia," greeted the front-desk hobbit, sound perfectly polite. "What can I do for you this fine evening?"

"I'm looking for my Lotho."

"I'm sorry. He hasn't been in here. Perhaps he is down at the Ivy Bush with his fellows."

"I've already checked," she huffed. "And why would you assume he would be down at the tavern?"

'Because he likes the drink,' thought Sam to himself. Many hobbits were aware of how much Lotho went out to drink (and drink more than one hobbit's share, more often than naught). And occasionally, Sam had heard, Lotho would cross over to the _Green Dragon_ when he wanted to stir up trouble (the _Green Dragon_ being for folks of Sam's class). No one dared strike a gentlehobbit, no matter if he had it coming.

The front-desk hobbit was stuttering. "I mean to say that he is one of the fellows-excuse me-I just mean that he is loyal to his friends. It's what's important to him, it seems. He wants to be with them, even if that means they may meet in the tavern."

"Yes," agreed Lobelia, relaxing. Sam fancied he could hear the front-desk hobbit breathe a sigh of relief. "People say that my Lotho is very loyal. He was been attacked once in the _Green Dragon_-did you know?-though I tell him not to go to that rundown place. He stood his ground just as a proper friend should, especially against such…vulgar company."

"My! I haven't heard about that!" he exclaimed. Sam's ears pricked up. He hadn't heard about this either. Who had dared to challenge Lotho?

"Yes, the drunk tried to attack him, but my Lotho fended him off."

"He's a brave one, your son," Front-desk answered quickly. Sam wondered if he knew about Lotho's reputation, though it seemed a bit unlikely. Lotho only showed his true colors to the common folks down at the _Green Dragon_, and no common hobbit in their right mind would speak of it outside their circle.

"Indeed," said Mrs. Lobelia, and then she said shortly, "Now. I've also come for some ink. Grapplevine Ink. Go fetch it for me. I know the price."

"Yes, yes, right away!" The sound of a chair screeching backwards echoed down the hall. Sam jumped back into his task, not wanting to be caught eavesdropping. The front-desk hobbit rounded the corner and caught sight of Sam. "You're still here?" he asked.

Sam spun around and removed his hat.

"Have you found your ink?"

"No, sir."

"This isn't a museum."

"Yes, sir," Sam muttered wretchedly, kneading the hat between his hands. "But if-," he blurted out and then stopped, nearly losing his nerve, but it was too late. He had already started. "I mean, me master is in real need, ye see. He needs this ink. He asked fer it. Please don't make me leave before I find it."

Then Sam blinked in surprise, for Mrs. Lobelia had suddenly come up behind front-desk, hands on her boney hips. She was small and sour looking, face plastered white with powder to hide her age, though it didn't do much good at all. The lines on her face hinted towards an extensive lifetime of frowning. Shading her features, an outrageous hat was perched precariously, a long, green feather curling out of the brim.

She looking him up and down, much as front-desk had, and her frown deepened. "It seems you left the door open, Bracegirdle."

Sam's eyes shot down at that remark, his face going right hot. This was more than he had bargained for.

"It appears I have," agreed front-desk. Perhaps Sam should have felt a bit betrayed; with any common hobbit he would have, but this hobbit was not common. Sam was dirt under his foot-and Front-desk was dirt under Sackville-Baggins foot. So who was Sam to Mrs. Lobelia, who had brought the full wrath of her sour frown upon him? Sam didn't want to think about it. Now all he wanted was to leave. "Out with you, drudge."

'Drudge?' thought Sam to himself. 'Now somehow that doesn't sound right.' But it was driven from his mind as Front-desk escorted him to the door, and Sam was all too willing to go.

"Now don't give me trouble again," he said as Sam stepped out into the creeping darkness. He waved his finger in the air for good measure. And just before the door shut, Sam caught a glimpse of Mrs. Lobelia Sackville-Baggins, her nose turned up and her face pinched as if she had witnessed a great offence-which, Sam supposed, it had been. Then he found himself staring into the grains of a fine wooden door, which only echoed the prestige within.

He stared down at his clumsy, calloused hands, tears of shame rising hot in his eyes. He should have stayed in Goodchild's where he belonged.

He didn't dally returning to Bag End, but night reached the smial before Sam could. Without the sun the air was chilled. His breath came out in little puffs that dispersed into the dark. He hadn't even thought to bring a lantern.

There, upon the hill, was Bag End, rising above all else like it was just getting ready to float off into the starry sky. It seemed high in the day, but at night it looked like a constellation all its own, with its windows lit up like that with candlelight. Sam sighed peacefully, despite his hurry, and his mind strayed away for a moment; he wondered what it would be like to actually live there.

"Sam, yer a Ninnyhammer," he sighed. "All ye'll ever need is the garden." And it was true enough. A hard day's work in the garden, a quick conversation with the master now and again, a sip of tea, an apple freshly picked-what more was there? What could be better?

He followed the road around to see that every hobbit had abandoned their stations for the night. Even his own home was quiet. He came finally to the top and shuffled his feet to the great green door, and knocked.

Sam didn't have to wait long at all for the door to swing open, bathing the front lawn in a warm light and making him squint. The sounds of chatter and laughter reached his ears.

"Hello?" came Bilbo's voice, though Sam couldn't quite see his face, as it was siluetted against the merry backdrop of Bag End's interior. "Samwise? It's rather late isn't it?"

"Yes sir. Well, Mr. Frodo asked me to get some ink for him at the market."

"He sent you this late?" There was a subtle anger in his voice, but it wasn't very noticeable. Bilbo had always been a patient one.

"No sir," answered Sam quickly. "He sent me a couple hours ago, but, see, I-I couldn't find what he was askin' fer." The chattering had grown louder, resounded down the hall. "Could ye please let him know fer me?"

"Won't you come in for a cup of hot tea and tell him yourself?" offered Bilbo kindly. There was an explosion of laughter behind him (probably at some silly joke made by Darec).

"No thank you," Said Sam as politely as he could while trying to repress a shiver. The chilly air was starting to work its way into his fingertips. "Me Gaffer's waitin' up for me, no doubt. I don't want to keep him any longer than I have to."

"Alright Samwise. Goodnight."

"Goodnight sir. Tell-," Bilbo shut the door, seeming to not hear that Sam was still mumbling on. And for the second time that day he found himself staring into a door's wood grains. "Tell Mr. Frodo I'm sorry."

He turned on his heels and headed for home, hoping that it would bring some warmth, but Sam hadn't gotten ten steps down the road when he heard something that made him freeze mid-step. His ears pricked. There it was again-the rustle of bushes. Something didn't sit right in the pit of Sam's stomach.

Well, for one thing, there was no wind this night. Not a single curl on Sam's head fluttered. There was no breaking of air upon his skin. The night was silent, sitting like a bowl of soup gone cold. Sam shivered, and it wasn't from the chill.

It was coming from behind him, down the road, and somewhere near Bag End. He turned himself slowly, waiting for another sound, any sound. His eyes slid shut and he gave himself wholly over to his sense of hearing. There was nothing, save the sound of someone breathing. There was someone breathing! He could hear them! Sam struggled to stay calm. The urge to scream rose up in him, but he clamped his mouth shut. He wanted to run, but by force of will he rooted himself in place. He couldn't panic now. He couldn't panic. He couldn't panic.

Oh.

That was _him_ breathing. Sam held his breath to make sure and, sure enough, it was no one else, just his wild imagination. Just him being a Ninnyhammer. Sam shook his head and let out a quiet chuckle. "Silly."

A twig snapped loudly in the settled night and Sam was off like that. Before he even knew what he was doing, he was bounding back up to Bag End. The blood pounding through his head seemed to block out any sort of thought. His brain was in his feet.

"Who goes there!" he exclaimed as he jumped through the hedges and into the darkened garden. There was an explosion of sound, or so it seemed to Sam when compared to the utter silence of only moments ago; it was the sound of branches being beaten and snapped out of the way. Sam had only to follow the racket, which led him at a tearing speed to the wall of the smial, to the rosebush under Frodo's window.

Sam skidded to a stop for a second, wondering if the night was playing tricks on his eyes. There was a dark figure untangling itself from the thorny branches, and doing an expect job by the look of it. It's movements were eerily ceremonial, as if it had untangled itself from thorns many times before.

Sam shook the fog from his head and lunged for the figure, but it seemed to hear Sam's approach and it jumped away at the last second, running into the shadows. Sam was after it in a flash.

"Stop!" he shouted, much in the way that Cock-Robin sounded when making an arrest. "Stop right now, you!"

Sam was gaining on him, little by little, even though the figure tried to weave its way in and out through the different paths. By night, the gardens were like a maze, but Sam knew them by the light of day, better than the back of his own hand. Whoever this was didn't know the gardens nearly as well.

Very suddenly, the figure came to the little pond in the center of the garden and nearly tumbled into the waist-deep water. It jumped back quickly, but halted, for the pond was walled in by tall, thick bushes. They were too thick to get through. The figure spun around, planning to head back the way it had come, but it was too late.

Sam took a lunge at the figure. His hand fell upon a shirt and he gripped it instinctively. The figure thrashed against him, grunting like an animal. Somewhere, in the back of Sam's mind, he relished the texture of the cloth. It was smooth, like spun silver. It was so smooth it nearly slipped right out of his grip.

"No ye don't," he growled. "Who are ye?"

Sam felt a strike to the face in answer. A great, clumsy, yet lucky fist caught him straight in the mouth, sending him reeling back into a constellation that had nothing to do with the night sky above. The figure tore out of his grip and Sam felt himself falling backwards. His head struck a stone and what followed was neither here nor there.

-0-

"Darec, you didn't!" laughed Frodo giddily. "What did she say?"

"She told me 'never in a hundred years' of course. She was always a bit uptight."

"I don't blame her."

"Shhhhhhhhhhhhh!" hushed Merry sharply. The dish-laden table clattered about as he pushed himself to his feet, sending his chair squealing backwards across the wooden floor.

"Merry," whined Darec, who had slopped tea on himself. "It wasn't _that _bad."

"Shhhhhhhhhh!" Merry held his hand up this time, stilling the room. "Don't you hear that?"

"Merry, hear what?" asked Frodo, who had a glass of water before him and nothing else. "I don't hear anything."

"I heard someone shouting," said Merry at length, scratching his ginger curls.

Aron and Darec looked at each other skeptically, but Frodo was watching Merry and listening himself. There was a muffled shout from beyond the smial walls and by the sound of it, it wasn't too distant. It seemed to have come from the garden, and it almost sounded like-

"Frodo, I think it's your gardener."

"Sam?"

"Yes. Listen."

They were all listening hard until Darec decided to break the silence. "I don't hear anything."

Both Frodo and Merry shushed him at the same time and he sat back with annoyance, folding his arms over his chest. Frodo fancied that he could hear the sound of running feat and rustling bushes, but surely it was only his imagination.

He glanced over at Merry, the little sprout of a tween, small for his age. It was hard to believe he was two years older than Sam. Merry could have been a frolicking lad of twelve had Frodo not known his age, while Sam, on the other hand, could have been an old gaffer himself for all his maturity.

Sam's voice rang out in the night. "No ye don't! Who are ye?"

Frodo jumped up, knocking his knee on the table. He moved quickly, but Merry beat him to the back door, curls bouncing out into the darkness.

"Aron, Darec, stay here!" Frodo called over his shoulder, though they hadn't moved an inch from where they were. He slammed the door shut behind him and bounded off in the direction his younger cousin had taken. "Merry, Wait! Where's Sam?! Saaaaaam!"

"Frodo!" came Merry's voice from the other side of a foliage wall. "It _is_ your gardener, and he's out cold…OH NO! He's _dead!_"

Frodo's blood ran cold. His feet faltered and he stumbled, driving a knee hard into the ground, but with a push of his hands he was up again. Branches snapped against his face as he careened through the short hedge and tripped onto his hands and knees into the little courtyard. The pond in the center glinted the moon's light like a slab of silver.

There he saw Sam, splayed violently upon the cold ground and Merry, at his side, a hand over his mouth. His face was ashen.

"Move aside!" ordered Frodo, pulling himself over to Sam to lean over him. Without hesitation, Merry fell backwards onto his bottom. "Sam?" called Frodo.

There was no response.

Frodo's hand shot out, his fingers digging into the softness of Sam's neck to feel for anything, anything at all-there it was. A pulse beat, very warm and regular and very much alive.

Frodo let out a rattling gush of breath. "Merry," he breathed, shaking his head. He didn't trust himself to say anything more. He pressed his hand hard against his heart.

"Oh," said Merry. His eyes were wide as saucers. "I-I thought-," he swallowed hard. "I thought the pulse was right _here_," he said, poking his finger into the soft underbelly of Sam's chin.

"Merry," Frodo said again, reproachful this time. "Where did you learn _that_?"

"Darec."

"G-go get Bilbo…please."

Merry nodded haphazardly and scrambled to his feet, shooting off towards the smial. Frodo pressed Sam's face between his hands and shook him gently, but it didn't have any effect. He was too afraid to jostle him around too much for fear of doing more damage. There was a bruise forming just under Sam's blunt nose, which was freckled when looked at close enough. Frodo breathed deeply, reminding himself again and again that the face between his hands was _warm_ and, therefore, Sam would be just fine.

"Sam?" Frodo called, and then again louder. "Saaaaaaam?"

Frodo yelped in surprise as he felt a large hand close around his ankle. Sam seemed to stir, opening his mouth to draw in a powerful breath. His hair brushed Frodo's fingertips as he shifted, shuddering to life. And suddenly, He was looking up at Frodo with very bleary eyes, blinking like he had never seen another hobbit before.

"Are you okay?" asked Frodo, though his words came out barely audible. Sam blinked a few for times, that hand on Frodo's ankle going slack and gripping, slack and gripping, as if Sam was trying to decide if Frodo was real or not. He seemed to come to some sort of conclusion.

"Fro…do?"

"Yes, I'm Frodo," he answered patiently, trying to ignore that calloused palm as it gripped harder than before (and not in an unpleasant way). "What happened?"

"I…don't-oh!" exclaimed Sam, sitting up suddenly. Frodo flinched, dropping his hands to his side upon realizing that he had still been clutching Sam's face. "Oh!" said Sam again, recognition lighting up his face, and then he groaned. "Oh, me head." His free hand shot up to cup the side of his head. He winced and pulled his hand back to inspect it. There was a small amount of blood on the pads of his fingers. It didn't look to be anything serious, but Frodo shrunk at the sight anyways.

Frodo swallowed hard. "You hit your head on that rock," he said, indicating towards it with a nod of his head. "What happened?"

"I-," Sam started.

"Frodo?" came Bilbo's voice.

"Sam's fine!" he called back. "We're over here!"

A lantern bobbed into the courtyard, throwing light about the place. The holder was Bilbo, his face looking older than usual. Merry followed close behind him and Aron and Darec were in back, craning their necks to get a good look.

"You're awake!" exclaimed Merry, cutting in front of Bilbo, which caused the older hobbit to come to an abrupt halt. "What happened? I heard you shouting! Did you trip?"

"Merry," chastised Bilbo.

Frodo glanced back at Sam to see that he had gone rigid and that his face was flushed to the roots with embarrassment. He placed a hand on Sam's shoulder, turning him away from the lantern light. "Could you just give him a moment…please?"

Merry nodded. "Oh, oh, right. Aron, Darec, let's go back inside."

"What," whined Darec. "I want to know what's going on."

"Come on," Merry insisted, dropping his voice down an octave, trying to sound like a grown-up. He pushed his two elder cousins along down the path much to their obvious displeasure. "Come on. Let's go." His voice faded away as he rounded a Lilac bush.

Bilbo had gotten down next to Frodo, but was careful to keep his distance. "Samwise, why don't you come inside for a hot cup of tea," he offered for a second time that night. His voice was kind. "You can tell us everything then."

Sam nodded his head. "Th-thank you…sir."

"Me and Frodo are going to help you up now. Ready?"

Sam nodded again.

"Alright, on three. One…two-"

"Oh, um, Sam, you need to let go," said Frodo gently.

"Let go? Oh! Sorry." Frodo felt that hand uncurl from his ankle, leaving it feeling a little cold. Sam would have blushed if he hadn't already been just about as red as he could get.

"It's fine. Alright, One…two…three."

Between the two of them, Frodo and Bilbo were able to pull Sam to his feet, though he was as shaky as a newborn calf. He grimaced suddenly, a grunt escaping his throat.

"What's the matter?" asked Frodo, watching Sam's face carefully.

"Nothing," he muttered. "Me head."

"Well let's get you back," said Bilbo calmly. "And let's get that blood cleaned up."


	7. Guard Duty

_I __do not__ own lotr or any of the characters that I am portraying poorly. The content of this fanfiction is questionable and should not be viewed by minors. . .or anybody for that matter._

_Enjoy._

**Chapter Seven: Guard Duty**

Frodo returned from his room as quickly as he had left and laid a piece of cloth on the dining table. It was pearly white and shone like burnished silver in the light of the one lantern. Sam stared at it hard. The material was flawless, beautifully flawless, save the curious little tears around the edges.

He set his teacup down shyly, shooting a look up at Frodo, who was standing over him. Frodo met his gaze and said, "I _do_ believe you, Sam, and I'm afraid that tonight wasn't our sneak's first visit here. Bilbo?"

Bilbo was sitting across the table, his brows furrowed in concern. "I'm afraid I believe you too, Samwise."

"Could I…?"

"Yes, go ahead," said Frodo.

Sam reached out to brush the sleek material with his hard fingertips. "Ooooh," he said. "That _is_ the same cloth as he was wearin'."

"He was wearing _silk?_"

Sam nodded. "It felt exactly as this 'un does and no mistakin' it."

Bilbo was the next to speak. "It seems our little sneak has fine taste."

"Fine taste indeed," said Frodo. "I can't think of many Hobbiton folk who can afford this kind of shirt."

"I can think of a few. What is it, a pocket?" asked Bilbo, picking it up, to which Frodo nodded. "Hmm. I don't like this."

"_You _don't like it?" said Frodo indignantly. "Uncle, whoever they are, they've been under my window. I don't know how they've been getting through he rosebush, but-but-I-it's _unsettling_." He crossed his arms, pressing his chin into his chest like a robin tucking in for the night. "I mean, who knows how many times they've been there, what they've seen."

"You can't tell your cousins about this," Bilbo said abruptly.

Frodo glanced up, his fair face glowing in the dim, yellow light, mouth askew in confusion. "What? Why ever not?"

"Tell them whatever you want, but don't tell-," Bilbo paused to check his voice, for it had grown louder than what would have been wise, at least with Brandybuck ears mere walls away. "Don't tell them," he started again in a hushed tone, leaning in. "what Samwise here saw. And," he added. "from now on keep your curtains drawn in the evening and at night…and in the early morning…and if it's overcast."

Frodo eyed his cousin hotly. "_Uncle_, why shouldn't they know?"

"This needs to be kept between us and _just_ us, and I do have a reason."

"Well, what could it possibly be? Don't our neighbors at least deserve to know if there is a Peeping Tom about," insisted Frodo. "How else would we catch him?"

"I don't think it's a Peeping Tom we are dealing with."

"You don't?"

"No."

"Well, then who?"

Bilbo rested his elbows on the table, fixing Frodo with that scholarly look. "Someone who would want to slander the Baggins name. Someone who would profit, should the future master of Bag End be forced to give up his position for whatever reason."

Frodo's mouth fell open. "You think it's-but not even _they_ would go sneaking around like that. Surely not."

"Yes, yes," Bilbo said with a wave of his hand. "We can't jump to conclusions. We can't go to Sherriff Robin. We have no evidence all except for a shirt pocket, and that won't get us far."

Frodo placed a firm hand on Sam's shoulder. "We have Sam's word."

"I'm afraid that won't get us far either. Not against _them_. And even if we _did_ have decent evidence…no, we must catch our little sneak in the act. It's the only way. So here's my plan: we go on as normal. Samwise, you've scared our sneak off for a while, but he'll be back eventually, mark my words. And when he does, we'll catch him off guard."

"I wish it didn't have to be this way," sighed Frodo in a defeated sort of way, taking a seat next his gardener. "Are you alright with this, Sam? It seems you've been roped in without any say in the matter."

"A'course, Mr. Frodo," said Sam. "And next time maybe it won't go so much the same way, if'n ye take me meanin'."

"I do, and I'm thankful."

Sam fidgeted, a slight blush rising on his cheeks. "Ah, don't be, sir. I would help ye a'course, whether ye were thankful or not." He glanced up to see Bilbo watching their exchange curiously, those old eyes glimmering with thought in his well-preserved face. What he was thinking, Sam couldn't even begin to guess.

Politely, Bilbo lowered his gaze to take a sip of tea. "I suppose I don't have to tell you, Samwise, that you can't speak of this to anyone else."

Sam nodded professionally. "I understand, sir. Not even if me own Gaffer were threatenin' me with a rake."

Frodo chuckled, then downed the rest of his tea.

-0-

Frodo insisted on walking Sam home once they had decided that it was too late to continue speaking that night. Sam insisted that he was perfectly capable, but there wasn't really any debate on the subject. If Mr. Frodo said he was going to go, well, by Valar Mr. Frodo was going to go, and no Gamgee (or Boffin, Bracegirdle, or Proudfoot for that matter) could have stopped him.

Sam's walk was slow despite the hot tea, wound-tending, and brave words on his part. He swerved like a drunk. Frodo kept along, making sure not to out-walk Sam and steadied him whenever he looked like he was going to tip over into the roadside weeds. There was one instance, though, when Sam did tip over and Frodo failed to catch him. Sam went down on one foot in a spray of dirt and gravel.

"That's it," said Frodo, shaking his head. "We're taking a break."

"Beggin' yer pardon, Mr. Frodo, but we're more than halfway there. It's only a couple minutes on a normal day," insisted Sam, struggling to get up.

But Frodo held him down, gentle as ever. "Please sit."

Sam couldn't have done anything else than obey, but he eyed Frodo's concern skeptically. His master's shadow slumped down on the ground next to him, hair quivering in the moonlight. He took a few steady breaths and then turned to Sam and asked in a low voice, "Why does it always seem like you're getting hurt?"

"I don't rightly know," answered Sam honestly, carefully watching Frodo's face. "Ninnyhammer is as ninnyhammer does, I reckon."

Frodo shook his head angrily, stuffing his hands in his pockets. Whatever was bothering him, he didn't voice it.

This made Sam panic. "Did I say something, sir?"

"Yes," Frodo answered sharply.

Sam clamped his mouth shut, digging his fingers into the cold grass by his thighs. "B-beggin' yer pardon," he squeaked.

"No," said Frodo, with another violent shake of his head. "Begging _your_ pardon."

Well, now Sam was confused. "I'm not angry with you," he ventured, but when Frodo didn't answer Sam fell silent, racking his brain for any idea of what Frodo was getting at.

"You don't get it," Frodo said finally.

"No, I don't," whimpered Sam. "Please, please tell me what's wrong, sir. _Mr. Frodo, sir_," said Sam, showering his master's name in despairing etiquette. "I don't know what I can do."

Frodo snapped right then. "That! That right there!"

"W-what?"

"Sir, sir, sir. Mister Frodo, sir. Begging my pardon over everything!" blurted Frodo. Sam sat back, eyes as wide as saucers. It was all he could do. Frodo had started, and he couldn't stop himself. "Anyone would think that you had just met me yesterday. You never speak your mind to me anymore, Sam; I _know_ you don't. You-you-Sam, I've known you for eleven years now. You _must_ know by now that I think of you as a friend. But apart from rare, little moments, you act like…like we've never said two words to one another, and when you do it's always followed by an apology. And it's just gotten more and more like that the past couple years."

Sam finally found his voice. "Please, s-well, it's only bein' proper."

"It's not proper to put yourself down all the time," he retorted.

"I-it's, I'm not…" Sam stuttered. Frodo was so quick on his feet. Sam had never won an argument with Mr. Frodo before (not that they argued, but there had been a few goofing-around debates back in the day, when they were just silly lads fooling around).

"_Please_, speak your mind, Sam," he said in a choked voice. He almost sounded sick.

Sam met Frodo's eyes and panicked at the sight of unshed tears, glimmering in the moonlight. His hands flew up on their own accord, hovering about Frodo's face, looking for some way to comfort him, but Frodo flinched away and wiped his own tears angrily. Sam dropped his hands quickly at his sides, face going hot. "It's not me place to do so. Y-ye know that. I can't."

"Well, why not? What could possibly happen?"

"I could get in big trouble."

"It's only me and you here."

"It would only lead to trouble. Please, sir. Why are ye cryin'?"

"I'm-I'm not crying."

"A'course ye ain't. But what has got ye so upset." When Frodo didn't answer, Sam tried again. "Please, sir. It be can't just about this."

Frodo met Sam's gaze dead on. His blue eyes were unrelenting. "There was a moment tonight when I thought you were dead."

"Oh," said Sam sympathetically. "Ye mean when ye first found me on the ground?"

"No. Merry found you first. He felt for your pulse wrong and, sort of, yelled it. I got there a few moments later and was able to feel your pulse myself, but those few moments, Sam, I thought-I thought for sure…"

"It's alright. I'm alright. It was just a quick scare."

"But it made me think."

"I know it did," said Sam, an insistent light in his eyes. "And I know what it made ye think about. I understand. I really do, but I shouldn't. Ye think of me as a friend, sir, and would ye believe that that's mutual? When we were younger we were maybe friends, I suppose, despite how things were-are-though I don't know why ye ever did put up with me and me endless questions and followin' ye around, and ye seemed to enjoy it too apparently, but I'm older now and I know better of what's proper and what ain't. Yer me _master_. I'm yer _servant_. And," he added quietly. "Me Gaffer has no tolerance for me uppity behavior now that I've grown summat into me responsibilities, ye see."

"It's your Gaffer then."

"I didn't say-there's _many_ reasons."

"But am I correct in saying that he is the main reason?"

"Sir, he's no stricter than the rest of the Shire-I've never heard this kind of talk out of ye."

Frodo stared pulling at the weeds by his legs and tossing the green-grey clumps away. "You don't really care what the rest of Shire thinks, though. At least, not as much as you care what your Gaffer thinks." Sam opened his mouth to argue, but Frodo cut him off. "Be honest."

"Would that be an order?"

Frodo sat back to take in the image of Sam's face before him: suspicious and blunt, yet there was a small waver in his eyes. It was shockingly unlike him. Frodo spoke carefully. "No, it's not."

"Then I won't answer it."

Frodo ground his teeth together.

"Now, sir, I feel rested enough." Sam struggled to his feet, leaving Frodo sitting in the cold grass. "I think I can find me way home from here. Please…just get some rest."

Sam turned away, walking strong, but before he had gone ten feet he stumbled over a loose stone, caught himself, and stood up stiffly. The straw-colored waves of hair bounced back and forth about his half-turned face as he shook his head like a dog. His head was not held high (it never was), but as he continued on down the road there was a mustered dignity in his clumsy steps. Frodo sighed and jumped up to follow him, overtaking him in a matter of seconds, and took his arm gently. "No, Sam. I said I was going to walk you home, so I will."

At length, Sam nodded his head in consent, but didn't say a word, and that is how they went along for the rest of the way. There were so many things that Frodo wanted to say, but there were no words that would make Sam see it from his perspective. And how could he possibly blame Sam? Frodo had been thoroughly educated. He had read books about far off lands and people and newfangled ideas. But Sam had been born in a little smial to a working class family. Though Sam might have intelligence beyond his station, entertaining liberal thoughts and dreaming about far off lands was simply not practical for him. In fact, the Gaffer downright looked down upon it and had made it very clear to his son on more than one occasion, or so Frodo had overheard as Gaffer and lad toiled in the garden. 'So what,' thought Frodo. 'was I planning to accomplish.'

They finally reached Sam's door (a crude, worn piece of wood, noticed Frodo with a bitter taste in his mouth) and Sam didn't hesitate to knock. It swung open almost immediately, steaming light out, though it wasn't nearly as brightly lit as Bag End.

"Samwise Gamgee," rumbled the Gaffer's voice. "Where in the _Shire _have ye-oh, Master Frodo."

"My apologies, Hamfast. I sent Sam on an errand late in the day without thinking."

"So that's where ye were off to," he said, fixing his son with a reproachful look. "And without tellin' me. I thought ye had abandoned yer duties." Sam shook his head. "Hold on. What's the matter with ye?"

He had noticed Sam swaying on his feet and Frodo standing close, almost protectively, the bruise under Sam's nose. And he seemed to sense some of the tenseness in them, though he didn't seem to suspect that the tenseness was _between_ them.

"I tripped and hit me mouth on a counter," said Sam quickly. Frodo shot a look at him, but he refused to meet it.

The Gaffer shook his head. "What am I to do with ye, Sam? Thank ye, Master Frodo, fer walkin' him home."

"Any time," Frodo answered awkwardly, as he watched Sam shuffle over the threshold. He was prepared to catch him should he trip. Sam, on the other hand, was trying to avoid as much eye contact with his master as possible. The Gaffer noticed this immediately.

"Samwise," he scolded. "Is that how ye treat yer master? I'm sure he has better things to do than walk yer simple self home." The Gaffer looked completely appalled. "I apologize, Master Frodo. Now, Samwise, ye turn yerself 'round right now."

Sam's fists clenched white-knuckled at his sides and as he turned around, Frodo saw that his face was beet red. It was the final humiliation of the day for Sam, one that nearly had him undone on his own threshold.

But the worst part: his eyes were trained upon the ground as he said it. "Beggin' yer pardon, Mr. Frodo, sir. Thank you fer walkin me home. It was very kind of ye."

"A-any time, Sam," Frodo breathed. The night's chill had crept up to him all of a sudden, traveling through every nerve and settling in the pit of his stomach. The nod he gave was really more like a twitch as he wished the two Gamgees a good night, and Sam returned it politely, though his eyes were veiled and wet.

When he reached Bag End a couple minutes later he hesitated on the step, a small, white hand on the knob. His composure wavered for a moment, but he screwed his face up like he had done so many times for so many different reason and opened the door. It was dark as he slipped in.

-0-

"Alright, now could you breath in for me? Good. Like that."

Cold metal pressed into the center of Frodo's narrow chest, making him shudder. Dr. Brown's face hovered close to him, his grey-streaked hair tipped downwards so that Frodo could see the balding patch in the center. He nodded to himself, seeming to come to some sort of conclusion. Then he lifted his wan face away and looked at Frodo kindly, almost sympathetically, for a moment before shaking his head.

"What's wrong?" asked Frodo.

"Absolutely nothing."

"Oh," said Frodo, finding his shirt and pulling it over his head. "Thank you anyways."

"Hold on there, lad. I'm not through." He took Frodo's chin and turned his head to examine both sides of his face. "You look drawn."

"I didn't sleep well last night."

"Did it have to do with your episodes?"

"No," answered Frodo. "It's unrelated."

"Well, I must say it's a real shame. You hadn't had an episode in a whole year, I believe. I was really hoping they were gone for good."

"Me too."

"I would prescribe something for you, but nothing is wrong with your lungs. They function just fine, so far as I am able to tell."

"Thank you, Doctor," said Frodo, getting up to leave.

"Hold on, hold on," he said, pushing Frodo back down. "I have an idea."

"What is it?"

"Would it be possible that these episodes have something to do, not with the body, but with the mind?"

"That could be."

"Do you remember the first time you were brought to me because of it?"

"Yes. Bilbo found me passed out," Said Frodo with a nod. "But that's all still a bit foggy to me."

"What was the first time you ever had an episode?"

"Well, I believe I was still living-no-it was after-after my parent's drowning."

"After as in 'chronologically after' or 'directly following'?"

Frodo gulped. "It happened a day after I learned of my parent's deaths."

"And that was the first time?"

"Yes."

"You're sure?"

"Yes, yes. I remember it very clearly."

"I believe I have spoken to you before about this. Do you remember what I said?"

"Of course," said Frodo. "You believe that the two are somehow connected: my parents and my episodes."

"Do you still think of your parents?"

"Occasionally. When something reminds me of them, but it's been so long now. I don't think of them much anymore."

"Were you thinking of them when you had your episode?"

"No, I wasn't. I was running, and I hadn't drunk much water that day or eaten much."

"That could definitely be it too, especially for someone who isn't accustomed to physical labor, like yourself."

"Yes," agreed Frodo, getting to his feet. "I promise to be more careful from now on, Doctor. And I know Bilbo will be relieved that nothing out of the ordinary was found."

Doctor Brown sighed, then took Frodo's hand and shook it. "Feel better, lad. Be easy on yourself for a while. Eat fat meals too. Oh, you've always been a skinny one. I swear I've got at least ten grey hairs on my head from you."

"I'll make sure to do that," he said with a laugh. "Have a good day. Say hello to Petunia and the lasses for me."

"I'll do just that."

Frodo stepped out into the wan sunlight. The day didn't seem to have quite recovered from the chilly night, though it wasn't too bad. The day before really had been the last pleasant day of the year. From here on out it was darkening days, colder weather, snow, and a Yuletide at Brandy Hall.

Frodo sighed and kicked a rock down the road as he made his way up to Bag End. He was simply too exhausted to be very cheerful about the upcoming festivities, his cousins were to leave in a few days, and he was afraid to run into Sam if he went back now, but as long as he stayed out of the garden and the kitchen, he should be safe.

As it turned out, Frodo's worrying was for nothing. He ran into his cousins the second he walked in the door, and Sam was nowhere in sight.

"Alright, cousin," said Aron, crossing his arms. "Looks like we've finally cornered you."

"Looks that way," agreed Frodo, hanging up his cloak.

"So what happened last night?" blurted Darec. "Your gardener keeps saying, ''tis not me place to say', ''tis not me place to say.'"

Frodo's brow furrowed in annoyance at hearing the impression. The way Darec spoke made Sam sound like he had been kicked in the head by a horse when he was younger. But Sam had acted cleverly, in fact. He left the lie-telling to Frodo, so that their stories wouldn't conflict.

"It's really not as interesting as you would like to believe. Sam saw a rabbit in the garden and tried following it back to its hole, but it started running and he started chasing and, well, you know the rest."

"Do we look like we were born yesterday?" asked Aron. "We all saw the big shiner on his face."

"I believe he got that at the market. He tripped and hit his mouth on a counter."

Merry leaned in close. "Come on, Frodo. You can tell us. We've talked about secret things before."

"There's nothing to tell."

Merry pulled back and crossed his arms just like Aron. They looked the pair. "You never tell me anything," he whined, and then he added lowly, "_I'll_ find out what's going on. Forget _these_ two. I promise _I_ will."

"You'll be looking for a long time. Come on," goaded Frodo. "Let's go do something."

"_Hrmph_."

"I think Bilbo said lunch was ready," said Aron, though he was clearly still annoyed.

The image of Hamfast preparing their meals flashed in Frodo's mind. And, odds were, Sam would be in the kitchen helping him if there wasn't any immediately important work in the garden. The dining room was just a bit too close to the kitchen for Frodo's comfort.

"Let's go to _The_ _Ivy Bush_ instead. I feel a bit cooped up."

And so Frodo was able to avoid Sam the entire day. They ate filling meals at _The Ivy Bush_, where Frodo greeted friendly Hobbiton faces and introduced his cousins. The tavern was clean and pretty looking during the day, with high ceilings that one wouldn't bump their head on and bright oil lamps on all the glossy tables to make the place feel awake even though the windows were small and few.

Frodo was halfway through a rich stew when he heard the sound of laughter-well, it was a very particular kind of laughter: high-pitched giggling, and it was coming From behind him. He turned his head just a bit and the giggles were cut off abruptly. Carefully, he turned his head more and caught sight of four young lasses, dressed in bright, fashionable colors and wearing expensive hats. They all seemed to be trying to look away, one fiddling with the brim of her hat like it was the only thing in the world that existed. Confused, Frodo turned back to meet Aron and Darec's wicked grins.

"What?" asked Frodo. "What's going on?"

"Oh, cousin, cousin," chided Aron. "Sometimes it's hard to believe you're a year older than me."

Frodo frowned. "What do you mean?"

"Those birds over there, they are looking here-don't look now!"

Frodo froze. "They're looking over here? Are they looking _now?_"

Aron lifted his head and glanced slyly over Frodo's shoulder. His grin grew even deeper, then he met Frodo's eyes again and nodded.

"Can _I _look?" asked Merry, who was sitting next to Frodo.

"No, not right now."

"Alright. I can't be sure, but I think they're looking at _me_," whispered Darec.

"Don't be ridiculous. Did you see how they reacted when Frodo turned around? They were obviously looking at him, though how long the Hobbiton lasses have been looking at him without him noticing, I'm not sure," he teased and then a strange glint came into his eyes. "Am I the only one that noticed that there's _four_ of them?"

"I'm not sure I like where this is going," said Frodo, eyeing his cousin's expression with concern.

"I don't think you fully grasp where this could possibly go."

Frodo fidgeted with his hands awkwardly. "I don't know what it's like at Brandy Hall these days, but Hobbiton is a little more conservative."

"Maybe because they haven't spent proper time with a Brandybuck yet. Seems to me, you haven't given these lasses the light of day so far."

"I know their families," said Frodo. "One is Doctor Brown's daughter, I believe, and I respect him and his family far too much to play around or toy with his daughter or whatever else you may have in mind."

Aron shook his head. "Oh, cousin, don't look at me like that. My interest is purely innocent. Maybe an intelligent conversation or a walk down the road." He glanced up quickly again. "But I have to say, that lass on the far right…I wouldn't mind having a conversation with her at all."

Oh, Frodo had to look now. He couldn't stop himself. "That's Ruby Bracegirdle, a cousin of Lobelia Sackville-Baggins, I believe. And the lass next to her is her sister Opal."

Both of the lasses, now twittering into each other's ears, were pretty, young things, probably about Frodo's age by the looks of it. Their curling, fussed-over hair was brown and their skin, though paled by years of walking under parasols, retained a brown tint, hinting a Harfoot descent.

"I think _I_ could talk to them," chirped in Merry.

"And that's Lilac Boffin," continued Frodo, indicating to a short, button-nosed lass, who had come of age the previous year. Her hair was fussed-up identically to Ruby and Opal's under a sweeping hat. "And that would be Poppy Brown, the good Doctor's daughter."

Poppy stood out noticeably from the gaggle, for her hair was longer, curlier, and _redder_. It was wasn't a pleasant ginger-red, but the color of a fire, and fussed up as well under a large, pink hat, but unlike all the other lasses in Hobbiton not a single hair was out of place, not one wayward curl or frizz. It was plastered about her head like burnished copper and held its shape like it too. She was buxom under the rich, pink dress she wore. Frodo knew for a fact that she was five years his senior.

"That Miss Brown," started Aron. "Have you ever spoken to her?"

Frodo paused to think. "Yes, sometimes if she is around when I speak to Doctor Brown. We've spoken before, I suppose, though not about anything very interesting. I'm actually surprised," added Frodo. "Usually she is escorted by her brother."

"Well, then here's your chance!"

Frodo started. "To do what? Talk to her? I _have_ talked to her."

"And?"

"And we don't have much in common."

Aron made a strangled cry in his throat. "She's a lass, you're a lad. What more do you need?"

"Someone I can talk to," he remarked.

The dish-laden table clattered slightly, but no one paid any mind to it.

"Compliment her hair. Lasses like that."

"Yes, that would fill about ten seconds."

"Ask her where she got her dress."

"Why? I don't wear dresses."

"Sometimes I think it would suit you, cousin," he huffed. "How do you not understand this?"

Frodo opened his mouth to shoot back a smart remark, but was stopped short by the sound of Merry's voice coming from behind him. "Master Meriadoc Brandybuck at your service, good ladies." Which was followed by giggles and squeals of enthusiasm. Frodo turned in his seat, arm over the chair's back, to regard the image of Merry standing before the lasses' table, a hand placed chivalrously on his breast. Frodo, who's mouth was quirked in an amused smile, wouldn't doubt that he was shorter than each one of them.

"Aren't _you_ cute," squealed Ruby. "Master Meriadoc Brandybuck, hmm? I wouldn't suppose you come from Brandy Hall, would you?"

"I would indeed. In fact, my father is the Master of Buckland."

"Oh, my," said Poppy, her voice high and innocent. "Would you like to join us, Master Meriadoc."

"Certainly," he chirped, taking a seat, though not before shooting a victorious look his cousins' way. "I have to say-Ruby, is it, if I may have the pleasure of calling you that-that hat is wonderful."

-0-

"I suppose you're feeling pretty smug right about now," said Aron. Merry was occupying himself by tossing an apple into the air and catching it, a small smirk toying at his lips.

"Not at all. I simply did what you were too afraid to do."

"What _cousin Frodo _was too afraid to do."

"Please," he said smoothly. "You would have been up talking to them and not trying to get Frodo to do it if you had had the courage."

Frodo let out a laugh, but Aron went brick red. "Like _you_ had any real chance, Merry. If you hadn't been talking so much they would have placed their tea on you, thinking that you were just a little end table."

"That's funny coming from a giant coat rack."

"Why-!"

"I think I'll be off to bed," said Bilbo, sticking his head in the parlor door. "So if you talked a bit quieter, I would be much obliged."

"Actually, I'm tired too," said Frodo. "Goodnight uncle."

Bilbo retired and soon after, Frodo was able to convince his cousins to let him go to bed for the night. Of course, once there was no hope that he could persuaded to stay up a bit longer Merry decided it was time for him to go to bed too. Then, with exasperated groans and muttered complaints, Aron and Darec shrugged off to bed as well. By this time in their visit, Merry, Aron, and Darec each had their own room (the shared room arrangement only lasted for the first few nights until they realized they didn't get much sleep at all when they were in the same room), and Frodo had gone back to sleeping in his own bedroom, though he was a bit uneasy about it now. Every creak and crack last night had sent him to his window to peep out through the curtains. The shared room arrangement was starting to look better and better.

The curtains were closed when he came in and he changed in his nightshirt quickly, but just before he crawled into bed he took one peep through the curtains for the sake of paranoia. What he saw startled him. There, just on the other side of the thorny rosebush, a shadow lurked.

Frodo threw open his window (for it was either that or running, screaming down the hall) and spilled bright light out into the darkness. The figure jumped up immediately, but didn't run. It spun around with hands raised in surrender and materialized into a familiar hobbit.

"Calm down, calm down! It's only me!"

"Sam?" Frodo leaned farther out. "What in the shire are you doing?"

"Beggin' yer pardon, sir. I know this looks strange."

"You couldn't possibly be-Sam, you're not on…_guard duty_, are you?"

"'fraid I am."

"Did Bilbo ask you to do this?" Sam shook his head, no. "You did it on your _own_ initiative?" He hesitated and then nodded. "Bilbo said it would be a while before the sneak-how long were you planning on waiting out there?"

Sam hung his head like a child caught with their hand in the cookie jar. "Not long. I've only really been here fer ten minutes, I reckon. No more'n that."

Frodo drummed his fingers on the sill. "It's freezing."

"It's not too bad once ye get used to it."

"Won't your Gaffer be angry?"

"He's asleep. I-I sneaked out." Sam's face was red now, though if it was from embarrassment or if it was from the cold Frodo couldn't be sure.

"Sam, I'm so sorry," Frodo sighed, leaning out farther into the night, precariously far over the rosebush.

"It's alright. It's not cold once ye get used to it. I promise."

"No, not that."

"Oh?" said Sam, tilting his head. "Oh! Oh, last night. No, no. please don't ye apologize to me, sir. Me heart couldn't bear it if ye did."

"But it was my fault!" insisted Frodo. The image flashed in Frodo's head of Sam turning around, wet eyes upon the ground. "I don't know what came over me to request such a thing from you. You were only doing your best to deal with me."

"Ye must know how sorry I am, Mr. Frodo and a'course I forgive ye, though there's nothing to forgive." Then Sam wiped at his face, for tears were in his eyes.

"You know, Sam, you are the best gardener that anyone could ask for."

Of course that did Sam in. He burst fully into tears then, a small sob escaping him. "S-sir, I've been thinkin'."

"What is it?"

"With everythin' that has h-happened and ye not even bein' able to talk to yer cousins about it and all, I was thinkin' ye might need someone to talk to who knows what's goin' on. A'course Bilbo knows, but maybe if ye wanted to, ye could come to me if ye needed to talk about things. Ye can call me a friend if ye want because that's what I call ye, ye know. Maybe we can be friends like ye wanted when there's no one around to look down upon it. Ye were right, sir. It can't hurt." Sam sniffed.

"Really, Sam?" asked Frodo, on the verge of tears himself. Sam nodded, though he seemed to be too choked up to speak. "That's so…thank you, Sam."

He nodded again. "B-beggin' yer pardon, sir, but I've been out too long already. Me Gaffer…"

"Of course, Sam. Go home, sleep well. I'll see you tomorrow."

"See you tomorrow, sir." Sam bowed his head shyly and then jogged off out of the garden and down the road that would lead him to his warm bed.

But Frodo stood at the window for some time, just watching the dark, winter-foreboding clouds as they shifted across the sky, breaking for a short moment to release a moonbeam on him, before fading away. Sam had been right; the weather wasn't so cold.

_Alright, alright. I'm sorry for being so cruel to Sam, but I think I was nice to him at the end. I just felt so __**good**__ ending the chapter there:D Anyways, I hope you guys enjoyed it. Take pity on me and please review._


	8. Tangled Up

_It seems I have some apologizing to do… School has been crazy and I totally forgot about this for a while, and then I got back to writing it, but I got writer's block and I couldn't figure out how to move the chapter forward. Anyways, really sorry. And thanks to everyone who commented (because I don't want to respond individually; I just want to UPDATE). Comments are my crack cocaine. _

_Disclaimer: I do not own-yada yada-wish I did. For a mature audience-blah blah blah-not mine. Enjoy:)_

_Now my penance: Chapter 8_

**Chapter Eight: Tangled Up**

When Frodo's eyes popped open it was still dim outside, on the verge of sunrise. Pearly-grey light was projected upon the window's curtains, making them glow and shed a pleasantly dispersed light into the room, just enough to see by. Yet despite the early hour, Frodo felt better rested than he had in a while. He sighed contentedly, sinking into the mattress and drinking in the utter tranquility of the moment.

'Well of course it's so quiet,' he thought to himself. 'Aron and Darec don't rise until late morning and Merry won't get out of bed if there isn't a meal in it for him.'

Only hard working folk rose at this early hour. The Gamgees would be arriving in the garden right about then, Frodo supposed, which led his mind directly to Sam. And suddenly he didn't want to laze around in bed anymore.

'No, no,' he told himself. 'You can go pester him in a little bit.' For now, he was perfectly content with playing his memories back and watching them in his head, immersing himself in the feeling of plain, simple luck-thing's couldn't have turned out better. And he had been spending all of yesterday trying to avoid Sam. It seemed silly now.

He had faith in Sam of course, because that was just who Sam was, but yesterday had been different. Everything about Sam was different when it came to his Gaffer and "propriety". What an awful word. Frodo scrubbed at his face in a sleepy sort of way and chuckled to himself. Propriety always came with Sam, like a cherry with its stone-not the delicious flesh, but still a part of it and impossible to remove without cutting through all the goodness as well. But in a way, Frodo reasoned, Sam's propriety was a foreign object. Frodo knew from experience, because he had watched Sam age. He could still picture in his mind the stubby, little lad that used to "pester" Frodo to read to him and asked questions about far-off places and people-before being reprimanded by his Gaffer.

He didn't want to dislike Hamfast over something like this that was clearly none of Frodo's business. And he knew-yes, he knew well enough-that Hamfast was only adhering to the expectations of, well, the rest of The Shire, perhaps even the rest of Middle Earth, but every time Sam's eyes fell to his feet or he mumbled out an apology, Frodo couldn't help but blame the Gaffer.

And now looking over all of it in his head, fascination dawned on Frodo; fascination at Samwise Gamgee, because there was simply no way to explain how Sam could have said what he said last night.

The way he was raised by his Gaffer and treated by everyone else, he should have turned out as a hobbit with nothing on his mind but work, servitude, and _propriety_. He _was_ that, and so much more. Where had the fascination with elves come from? Sam had always been taken with them. Where had Sam's endless questions come from? Why did Sam come up with his own names for plants when his Gaffer kept drilling into him their _proper_ names? Why had he come up with his own ending for _Amarth and Dinelloth_? Why did he even care?

Frodo had no answer. Just thinking about it made him itch for Sam's company.

He stretched and then slumped out of bed. With a twist of his shoulders, he drew off his nightshirt and let in fall unceremoniously to the floor. The air's coldness hit his bared body instantly and he jumped back into his bed with a gasp of surprise. Winter really had decided to visit!

The sudden seasonal change was probably wreaking havoc on the garden, whispered a voice in his mind.

Frodo swaddled himself in his bed sheet, which had gotten balled up at some point in the night and crossed the chilly floor to go pick out warm clothes. He felt just a bit ridiculous, shuffling around in nothing but the sheet (which was more than a little bit see-through), but he could certainly laugh at himself. He wished Sam was there. Frodo was sure Sam would burst into laughter too, forgetting that it wasn't proper at all to laugh at one's master. Yes, Sam would stand right there and…

Something turned in Frodo's stomach at the thought, and somehow Frodo didn't think that Sam would be laughing at his mad master's antics, running about nearly naked and all. All his humor was banished in a second. It was that funny little twinge in the vicinity of his navel.

His hand came down on the door of his wardrobe with slap, steadying himself as that strange feeling shot up through his frame and expanded across his skin like a million tiny blooms. Then he gave a clipped chuckle. The hand became a fist. 'You got up too fast, fool. Doctor Brown said to take things easy,' he thought to himself. Except _that_ was far from his lungs. And that's where he cut off his thoughts abruptly and focused on covering himself with real clothes before anything came of all the getting-up-too-fast.

When he was fully dressed he felt much more like himself (and had thankfully avoided any visible reactions). Absently, he hefted the sheet back onto the bed without bothering to straighten it out. Some tea would do him good.

His feet hardly made a noise as he padded out to the kitchen and set a teapot on the stovetop to boil. It didn't take long at all to be ready and when it was, Frodo reclined against the counter as he enjoyed it, drinking in the morning's stillness as well. When he had finished, he decided to invite Sam and Hamfast in for a cup.

-0-

Sam was chilled to the bone. It wasn't just the early, autumn morning. It was the wind that whistled between the hills. Thankfully, the garden was more sheltered than the rest Hobbiton due to the hedge walls, but they couldn't hold back all of it. Every once and a while a blast of wind would sneak it's way in past the tossing hedges and burn Sam's exposed face and hands. Or worse: find its way under shirt and coat, lifting it away from his body like a ship's sail. It was like being suddenly submerged in a river.

Not that Sam paid much mind to it. He was busy enough trying to prepare the garden for what felt like would be an especially cold winter. He didn't like it one bit. And though his Gaffer tried to go about his business like any other day, Sam could sense an unease in him too, in the way he kept looking up at the overcast sky and barking orders at Sam.

"Have ye covered the roses yet?" he asked gruffly as he got to his feet, joints cracking.

Sam jumped over to help his father up, but the Gaffer waved him away. Sam pulled back his arms shyly and wrapped them around himself to stop his coat from flying up. "No, I-ye said to take care of the lilies."

"Did I now? Well, ye've finished the lilies so on to the roses. Do I have to hold yer hand?" The Gaffer was in an unusually foul mood.

"I'll get right to it, da'"

He grunted and got back to work and Sam took that as a dismissal, getting out of there before his father could pin him down again. He wasn't usually so gruff and more often than naught helpful and full of good, common wisdom. At present though, he was in a right tizzy and best avoided.

With shaking hands, he got to covering the rosebushes with canvas, letting his mind wander. That was an uncommon thing for Sam: letting his mind wander away from the task at hand. And he knew he didn't really have enough mind to spare for wandering, but it did just the same. It was the rosebush that started it. It reminded him of the sneak, which led him to wonder if the canvas would help to obstruct Frodo's window, which planted the idea in his mind that he should test it out for himself, just to be sure.

Carefully, Sam looked around to make sure that his Gaffer was nowhere in sight before hunching over and picking his way into the rosebush. In the light of day he could see the gap that the sneak had been using. It was small and narrow, but less prickly. Ironically, it had turned out to be the gap that Frodo had cut trying to get Sam unstuck.

And Sam nearly got stuck again a few times, but he was able to reach the window, and to his dissatisfaction the canvas did nothing to obscure it at all. It didn't even pose a challenge. On the contrary; it made the rosebush all snug and warm.

"Mr. Frodo will simply have to keep his curtains closed," Sam sighed to himself, but before he turned to find his way out, he noticed that-by Valar!- the curtains weren't even closed all the way. There was a small sliver just the right size for a sneak to look through. What had drawn Sam's attention had been a flicker of movement on the other side of those curtains, which didn't make any sense. Sam knew for a fact that Mr. Frodo didn't get up so early.

Perhaps what Sam did next was out of concern for his master-friend. Perhaps he didn't think at all. Regardless, the next thing he knew he was leaning up and peeking into Mr. Frodo's room. And then Sam wasn't really sure what he was observing.

Frodo seemed to be dancing around on his feet as if the floor was very cold (which Sam reckoned it was by the show that Frodo was putting on), his body swaddled ridiculously in a bed sheet and from what Sam would tell, Frodo had naught on but that. Laughter bubbled up in Sam's throat, but he clamped a hand over his mouth to keep it from escaping. Frodo was like that sometimes, Sam could remember. When they were younger no one could make Sam laugh like Frodo could; Frodo just being Frodo.

And then all the humor seemed to drain away. Frodo froze suddenly, his hand shooting out to steady himself on the wardrobe. A new expression entered his features, an expression completely unfamiliar to Sam, but he could tell that something was very wrong. And then Sam's eyes, on their own accord, were drawn downwards, following a line, a simple difference in shadow, and before he understood what he was looking at, his eyes were tracing the contours of Frodo's slim body. Though turned away from Sam's eyes, Frodo was visible through the thin sheet. Just barely.

Then Frodo seemed to shake himself. He grabbed some clothes quickly and slipped out of Sam's view. Sam's mind wasn't working too well, but it was enough for him to know that he shouldn't be watching anymore (he shouldn't have been watching from the start). He backed away a bit too quickly. Sharpness poked at the back of his head, causing him to freeze. He had forgotten that he needed to crouch down to avoid a prickly branch. If his hair got tangled in the thorns and he got stuck and his Gaffer came to find him…oh, that wouldn't do.

There was another flicker of movement on the other side of the curtain. Sam tried to ignore it but his head was more or less locked in place. He occupied himself with fiddling with his hair in the back, trying to get it unwound, but it was slow, careful work so he clamped his eyes shut.

It didn't matter that he and Frodo were friends now. It wasn't like going swimming with Jolly cotton when they stripped down before jumping in the water. Little alarms were going off in his head that he absolutely could not under any circumstances look at Frodo while he was getting dressed. It was beyond improper.

That was what he was repeating to himself when there came an especially painful tug on his hair, causing his eyes to fly open on their own accord. Beyond the curtain there was a flash of white skin and then Sam's eyes were clamped shut again. He began to hum to himself.

'Don't look, ye Ninnyhammer,' shouted a voice in his head (a voice that sounded quite a bit like his old Gaffer), but then there was new voice in his head. 'Is Frodo's skin really that white or was that just the bed sheet I saw?'

It was a stupid thing to wonder about. It wouldn't matter to Sam either way. But then why did the question seem so fascinating?

'It wouldn't hurt nobody to look,' reasoned Sam. A memory echoed in Sam's head, an exchange between him and Frodo two nights ago.

"_It's not me place to do so. Y-ye know that. I can't."_

_ "Well, why not? What could possibly happen?"_

_ "I could get in big trouble."_

_ "It's only me and you here."_

_ It's only me and you here. It's only me and you here. It's only me and you here._ Somehow that last statement seemed very, very important. It carried a weight, though Sam wasn't sure why. If Sam retained his propriety at that moment and kept his eyes shut, no one would ever know that he had done right. And…if he opened his eyes just a bit, just enough for a quick peek to silence his curiosity, then no one would ever know that he had done wrong.

No one would know. Just Sam.

With a burst, Sam let his eyes fly open. It wasn't as hard as he thought it was going to be. They wanted to open. And what he saw: nothing. The room was empty. He heard the muffled click of a door, signaling that Frodo had just left and that he had missed his chance.

One beat passed and then Sam was flooded with shame. He clenched his eyes shut again and wrenched the rest of his hair from the thorns. It hurt a bit, but he certainly deserved it. _Ninnyhammer, ninnyhammer, ninnyhammer. _And then that voice in his head was back; the reasonable, proper one. The one that sounded like his Gaffer. It cracked like a whip. 'This is what happens when ye start getting ideas above yer station. Ye've been warned yer whole life, but that wasn't enough fer ye.'

Thoughts like that raged within his head as he picked his way through the bush, getting caught several times (probably due to his impatience). He wanted to distance himself from this as far as he could as quickly as possible so, naturally, it took him longer to get out than it had to get in. Thankfully, the Gaffer was occupied somewhere with something more pressing than scolding his son for taking too long with the rosebushes. Sam would have died. Oh yes, had he been caught then by his Gaffer he would have certainly rolled over and died.

At the opening, his clothes caught and stuck one more time, but with a pull he stumbled out, falling forward onto his knees. Freedom. He sighed with relief, but the next moment his breath caught in his throat when he realized what he was staring at.

Feet. They weren't his Gaffer's gnarled feet either. They were clean…and white. And they were attached to breeches of a fine material, which covered slender legs. Sam's eyes rose higher to where the slender legs met narrow hips and narrow hips supported a narrow torso, which sloped up to a chest and then a throat, and finally Sam's eyes came to rest on the face that peered down at him as if from a high tree branch, a bird's nest of dark, fluttering hair. And those blue orbs…

"Sam?" Frodo asked, but his voice didn't come out right. He looked completely bewildered.

"Mr. Frodo, I-," Sam started, but Frodo cut him off.

"Why were you in the rosebush?" he asked. "Did you see anything?"

Sam choked on his words, panicked, and started shaking his head from side to side. Had Mr. Frodo seen him? How was that possible?

"You didn't see anything? Nothing at all?"

Sam paused mid-shake and said dumbly, "I don't know what ye mean."

"You didn't find anything in the rosebush?" His features looked stricken and his complexion was paled, though it could have been from the early morning light all the same.

"No," said Sam. "Why? Is somethin' in the rosebush?"

"No, no," Frodo answered with a shake of his head. "Nothing." Then he seemed to notice then how close he was standing to Sam and took a faulty step back (though one could argue it was more like a jump). Then he turned his back.

Sam got to his feet quickly. "Is everythin' alright with ye?"

"Yes. Everything's fine," was his hurried answer.

Sam reached out a hand, meaning to lay it on his shoulder, perhaps to comfort him or perhaps to turn him around (had Sam the gall to do so), but he stopped halfway through the gesture, his brown, lonely hand hovering inches from Frodo's back. If Mr. Frodo wasn't going to talk about what was wrong then Mr. Frodo wasn't going to talk about what was wrong and no gardener's son would ever convince him otherwise.

And then Sam remembered. Mr. Frodo wanted Sam and him to be friends, casual with each other, and he wanted Sam to speak his mind. Sam had already tarnished that only minutes ago, but if he did good and helped Mr. Frodo with what was troubling him wouldn't that be sort of like redemption?

Frodo flinched in surprise when Sam's hand came down gently on his back, but he didn't shake it off. Sam mustered himself.

"Yer actin' like somethin's not fine," He said quickly. "Ye can trust me. Remember?"

Frodo turned slowly and met Sam with the brunt of his stare, but it was not unkind (though intimidating, yes). And then he did what Sam didn't expect.

"Do you promise you won't tell?"

"I promise," said Sam, eyebrows raised in surprise.

Frodo studied him for a moment. What he was looking for Sam wasn't sure, but whatever it was, he seemed to find it. "It's about the elvish book," said Frodo quietly, the caution still plain in his bearing.

"_Amarth and Din_-"

"_Shhhhhhhh!_ Yes, that one," Frodo said, looking around quickly.

"Oh," said Sam, glancing around as well, before returning to Frodo's face with an apologetic grimace. "To be honest, I've plain forgotten with everythin' as has happened."

"Yes. Me too," said Frodo. "Until you reminded me of it just now."

"I did?" asked Sam.

"Yes," groaned Frodo. "I just realized…"

"I don't understand, sir," said Sam. "What's wrong?"

Frodo swallowed-audibly. "Do you remember what Bilbo said? How he thought the sneak was looking for something he could use to slander the Baggins name?"

"Yes?"

"Well, I think he's found it."

-0-

Ted Sandyman pouted, which wasn't too unusual. Most folks were pouting that morning, that cold, cold morning. A cloud cover as thick as soup hung across the sky in every direction for as far as the eye could see. The wind was tragically cold and blustery. Really, every hobbit he passed that morning on his way to tavern was pouting. Only it wasn't _just_ the weather that had Ted Sandyman pouting.

_The Ivy Bush _was usually dead in the morning-a couple folks at the counter, a couple just leaving their rooms-but this morning had drawn quite a few more in (all sulking). Ted would fit in just fine.

Five minutes later found him at a corner table, tankard within reach and a cut of bread to tempt his already-sated appetite. He heard the door swing open, which wouldn't usually have interested him, but he recognized the gait of the walker, the big, heavy footfalls, spaced far apart. He glanced up in time to see Dale Bracegirdle duck through the door and saunter into the tavern.

Dale, son of Hugo Bracegirdle, was one of the largest, meanest-looking hobbits in the shire. He towered, his body longer than everyone else's both vertically and horizontally, shoulders slumped under a remarkably thick neck which held a remarkably small head. And on that head, his face was pinched and his eyes were small, like a pair of raisins in a batch of dough. Ted would have been terrified of the hobbit had they been enemies, but Dale was with him and Lotho and the rest of the gang, so the two of them got on well enough. He motioned for Dale's attention (which took longer than it should have) and invited him over to sit and talk over an ale.

"What's got you?" Dale asked right away as he sat down, his face all scrunched up. He then proceeded to take a rather large sip from his tankard, which left an off-putting ring of foam around his lips.

That distracted Ted and he wondered if he should tell Dale to wipe his mouth, but he shrugged it off. He wasn't his mother after all. "Have you seen Lotho recently?"

"Now that you mention it, no I haven't."

"Strange."

"Not really," said Dale untactfully. "Lotho will do what he wants."

Ted ignored his friend's apathy. "Shutting himself away is one thing that he doesn't do."

"I suppose. Say! Do you think it has something to do with what happened in _The Green Dragon_?"

"Shhhhhhhhh!" Ted glanced around to make sure that no one had heard. Then he turned back to glare at Dale for his stupidity. "Nothing happened in _The Green Dragon_."

"Oh, _right_," Dale said lowly, giving a truly stomach-turning wink. Ted rolled his eyes.

"He's been acting funny though recently, right?"

Dale just shrugged. "Funny how?"

"I don't know. It's like he's always occupied with something. I haven't seen him in a week now, but he's been acting strange since before that."

"That's not that long."

"For Lotho it is."

"Starting to miss him?"

"Shut your mouth, Dale, and wipe it too while you're at it."

-0-

Sam felt a bit like a child now, crouched behind the tool shed, hiding from his Gaffer. A myriad of memories flashed through his head of times when he was much younger, when Frodo would whisk him away from his work when the Gaffer wasn't looking and show him books written in elvish or poetry that Bilbo had translated. And of course Sam couldn't resist. Not even the ever-pressing fear that his Gaffer was a vulture that could swoop down on him at any minute could have kept him from following Frodo to the more remote sections of the garden. The big tree at the back had been their most common spot, but behind the shed had been their second most frequented. And now it was like being a child all over again. Here was a conspiring Frodo crouched beside him and telling him about a certain elvish book.

Except Frodo was a good deal more distressed.

"So," began Sam doubtfully. "The sneak has taken the elvish book to slander the Baggins name with, which was in the rosebush because ye had to hide it from Mr. Bilbo, who can't ever find out that ye took it, because of a reason ye can't tell me?"

"Yes," said Frodo with a nod.

Sam couldn't even begin to think of how to help Frodo out with his current predicament. "Sounds like a right fix," he murmured.

"Yes," Frodo said again, a wry smile stretching his mouth.

"But why?" pursued Sam (rather daringly, to be honest). "I don't understand why the book is so…troublesome. It's only _Amarth and Dinelloth_ after all. Adventure stories."

"They weren't simply adventure stories, Sam. They…I don't really know where to start."

"Beggin' yer pardon, but wouldn't it just be easiest to start at the beginning?"

"Yes it would," he murmured, his eyes growing distant. "The beginning. It began years ago, I suppose. Many." He glanced back at Sam to gauge his reaction, but Sam had settled in already, fully prepared for a long story. He was watching Frodo intently.

"Years ago, though I'm not sure how many, there was an illness that went around. But it was very different from any other kind of illness. There was no fever or cough or any other symptom. Really, it only did one thing." Frodo paused here. Now that it had come right down to it, he wasn't sure that Sam would react well. He might even come to the conclusion that Frodo was…infected (which he most certainly wasn't, of course), but Frodo knew he was passed the point of no return. He would simply have to trust Sam.

"It caused lads to have desires for other lads," he said. "_Lustful_ desires." He expected Sam to be confused or worse, repulsed, but Sam didn't look thrown at all.

"I think I've heard of tha'," he offered. "I overhead me da' once."

"You did? What did he say?"

"Not much. Just said somethin' like, 'I were nearly of age when tha' happened' and then he said it was 'unfortunate' and 'such a pity'. I got the feelin' he knew someone as had gotten sick. I asked him about it, but he just told me that I didn't need to know and that I should never ever bring it up to anyone. How did ye hear about it? Did Mr. Bilbo tell ye?"

"Unintentionally," muttered Frodo. "No, nevermind. He didn't. I had never even heard about it until Aron told me."

"So Mr. Aron told ye?" asked Sam. "Wait, I'm confused. Beggin' yer pardon, but how does this have to do with the elvish book?"

"Begging _your_ pardon," replied Frodo, which caused Sam to color slightly. "I'm afraid I'm not explaining it very well." He worried his lip, face crumpling with anxiety.

"What's the matter?" asked Sam softly.

"I read the elvish book without you," started Frodo guiltily.

"Oh, that's okay," said Sam, always quick to forgive.

"But that's not the bad part." Frodo couldn't meet Sam's eyes as he spoke. "Amarth and Dinelloth-they…they kill the snake. Well, Amarth kills the snake and Dinelloth gets rescued." There was no going back now. "But the story didn't end there. The two of them ended up together and…and they were _ill_. Together."

Sam didn't give himself enough credit. He had said time and time again how simple his mind was, but Frodo knew better. Understanding washed over him in a second.

But, "Oh," was all he could say.

"And Bilbo almost caught me with it," Frodo continued. "So I threw it out the window. Into the rosebush. I did try looking for it several times when I was able to get away from my cousins, but I didn't find it. All I found was the pocket."

"So now _they_ have it," concluded Sam.

"I don't know what to do." Frodo buried his face in his hands, dark curls toppling over each other. His shoulders shook and Sam realized that he was crying.

"Mr. Frodo!" exclaimed Sam.

"I don't know how I got so tangled up in this," Frodo choked out, tears obvious in the way his voice shook. "I don't know what to do, Sam. What can I do?"

Sam surprised himself when he found his both his hands clamped on Frodo's shoulders, pulling him out of his seat against the shed and turning him so that they both kneeled on the ground, facing each other. Frodo seemed just as shocked, but he didn't break away. His eyes were riveted on Sam's face as he spoke.

"I don't know what to do neither, but I do know that we'll think of somethin'."

"You don't want to involve yourself in this," whimpered Frodo, shaking his head. "If they accuse me of being ill then it isn't a long jump to you."

"Then I'm already on their target, beggin' yer pardon," said Sam. "But that's the worst case. Just wait. Everything will be alright."

"How can you know that? It's never been so _wrong_."

"I just know."

Frodo's eyes flicked around Sam's face for a moment, studying him through his tears. Sam expected an argument. He expected Frodo to make him stay out of it, or insist that they needed a foolproof plan, or say that it was all hopeless, but he did none of these. He was a Baggins.

"Alright," Frodo said with a nod.

Sam gave a warm smile, which turned shy. He shrunk back, face going bright red, as he realized his own audacity. But Frodo wasn't having any of that. He caught Sam before he could remove his hands and pulled him into a tight embrace. Sam was surprised (and that was putting it lightly), but he didn't hesitate to wrap his arms around his friend.

"Thank you," Frodo mumbled into the crude material of Sam's collar.

"There-there's nothing to thank."

-0-

Ted Sandyman knocked on the bright red door and then stood back. He didn't visit Lotho at his home much, mostly because he felt out of place. He had made sure to dress his best, but even his best was only middle class clothing.

The smial (if it could still be called that) was built into a tall, steep hill and carved out in just the right way so that it seemed to tower over one when they went to the door. It was one of the most imposing smials in all the Shire. And it fit the Sackville-Bagginses perfectly.

The door was opened by an older, withered servant who looked over Ted Sandyman before nodding.

"Master Ted," he greeted as he ushered him into the drawing room. "I'll go see if Lotho is available.

Ted didn't have to wait long before the door swung open to admit Lotho. He looked just as he always did: a shiny, silk shirt was smoothed over his frame and tucked into his pale breeks and he wore a bright colored coat that hung off his shoulders. But as he got closer, Ted saw that he did not look normal at all. There were deep shadows under his eyes.

"Lotho," Ted greeted. "You don't look well."

"I've been having some late nights," he replied. But Ted was confused by this. Lotho hadn't been down to the tavern in a week. "I suppose you are here to ask what I've been up to."

"Yes. To be honest, I can't figure out what to do with myself."

"Hmm. Bored?" Grinned Lotho.

"Terribly."

Lotho appeared to think for a moment. "How good are you at keeping secrets, Ted?"

That certainly got Ted's attention. "Very, very good," he replied. "What's going on?"

"You know Bilbo's cousin? The Brandybuck playing 'heir'?"

"Frodo?"

"Yes, him," said Lotho. His eyes were lit with a fire as he continued. "But I'm trusting you. You mustn't repeat this."

_Dun dun daaaaaaaah! R&R:D perhaps? You might as well._


End file.
